Equilibrium
by csishewolf
Summary: A disturbing case of a serial killer forces Grissom and Sara to work together after she left Las Vegas. Can he fix things between them? GSR WIP Part3, Chap1 and 2.
1. prologue

**Disclaimer:** Gil Grissom, Sara Sidle, and all other CSI: Crime Scene Investigation characters, as well as any scenarios previously aired within the show, are the sole property of CBS and a whole boatload of extremely rich people. So if they are mentioned in this story, guess what, they aren't mine. All other characters and scenarios found within this story are the sole property of me. Me, me, me. I'm taking credit for this, although I may regret it later.

_This Disclaimer holds for the entire piece. Additional Disclaimer information will be added as necessary. I have enough practice in redundancy in my real job, thanks._

**Rating:** M - for all the very wise reasons why you rate something as 'M' or 'R'. Read at your own discretion.

**Spoilers:** Anything from Season 5 that has aired in the U.S. to date is fair game. And to warn you, this fic is _not_ Spork-Free. Sorry.

**Beta Props:** Many, many thanks to Cybrokat for the excellent beta work. Particularly Chapter 2. Any errors found within are entirely my fault, and I humbly apologize in advance.

**A/N:** This is a GSR melodrama. You have been warned. I must be channeling Homer or something, because I feel like I'm writing _The Iliad_. Have you ever read _The Iliad? _I mean, the whole thing? God help us all. This started as an attempt to write a casefile, and to include more of Catherine and Brass, since I skimped on them in _Baseline_ (which this is not a sequel of). Let's just say it has evolved beyond that... into this. This fic will be posted in 'Parts', of which there are at least three. The casefile will be featured predominantly in Part 2. Part 1 is complete, so here it is. Enjoy!

* * *

_... prologue ...  
_

_He studied the naked young woman before him. She was quiet, oblivious to the world around her. She had been oblivious for the past 32 hours. Modern medicine was truly a miracle._

_Her wrists were taped together over the top of the showerhead, and she hung limply from it, the red from her painted toenails clashing with the darker red of her own blood dripping into the drain. The majority of it was coming from between her long legs. He marveled at the strength of quality construction; the showerhead in his own apartment would have most likely broken off._

_He reached over and placed two fingers along the woman's neck. Her pulse was feeble, but she was still alive. He considered another session with her, and his pulse quickened. But the sound of a soft moan broke through his thoughts. She was waking, and he was out of medication._

_He couldn't have her suffer. That was unacceptable._

_It was time, then. He reached into a small bucket, taking out his knife. He had to be careful not to let the blade touch his gloves._

_A quick slice and five minutes was all it took. He ran the hot water for a few minutes to flush the blood from the tub, and to wash his soiled gloves. He let his hands hang over the tub, his gloves dripping dry. He still needed them. It was time for the bleach._

_After wiping and scrubbing everything, including the woman's body, and his own, he started over and cleaned again. He hated making a mess. All must be cleaned. Every crack, every crevice. All must be made pure again._

_He reached for the cleaned knife. He had to cut her down now, and lay her to rest in the tub. It was time. As he stood on the edge of the bathtub, he reached up to cut through the tape, being careful not to touch her beautiful wrists._

_In an instant, the knife slipped, and fell to the bottom of the tub with a clatter. As it fell, it sliced the young woman along her left breast, leaving a mark that vaguely resembled a "J"._

_He swore, upset that she was damaged unintentionally. But as he looked closer at the cut on her breast, memories of a story he'd read long, long ago came to his mind._

_He picked up the knife and succeeded in cutting her down the second time. He positioned her properly in the bathtub, so all who would come after him would see her in her clean, pure beauty. He removed the tape and placed it back into his small bucket, along with the knife. More bleach and some scrubbing removed any residue from the woman's wrists._

_There. Finished._

_He would need to ponder his new discovery. Ideas formulated in his brain. It was good that he was leaving this town, and moving along, as was his trade. He could use the time to consider the possibilities. Perhaps, only the truly dirty should be cleaned. Only the sinners should be made pure again._

oooooooooooooooooooooo

"The cleaning lady discovered her," Brass intoned. "But hey, we won't need to call in for clean up. Or request last rites."

"What?" Grissom asked, confused.

"You'll see. Come inside."

Brass and Grissom walked into the hotel room at the Tangiers. The odor of bleach was prevalent, and Grissom mentally sighed. Bleach killed everything. It destroyed DNA, and tended to smudge prints. It also discredited the color in any hair samples they might find.

Grissom peered into the rather large bathroom, and found a young brunette clearly positioned in the bathtub. She appeared to be praying. The huge slash mark across her neck obviously indicated foul play. The lack of blood anywhere, along with the lingering bleach odor; it was obvious the whole bathroom had been cleaned.

Grissom stepped closer to examine her. Ever since Debbie Marlin, he had to check the young brunettes closely before he'd truly be able to relax. He knew that it most likely would never be… her… but he still checked.

He felt a presence behind him; it was David. Grissom felt a twinge of pity for the young man. He was called out to most every DB they had. It was amazing that the sights he'd seen hadn't affected his calm and cheerful demeanor.

"Are you ready for me, sir?" David asked quietly.

"Give me five minutes in here, and then you can get to work. But don't take her until we've had a chance to examine her after you've declared."

Grissom examined the tub around the woman, then the floor, and finally the sink. It felt redundant; he knew in the pit of his stomach that this was where she had been murdered, and that the whole room had been scrubbed spotless. He'd spray luminol after the body was removed, but he knew what he'd find. Blood everywhere, and none of it useful.

Nothing stood out to him after his first pass, so he waved David in and went to check out the rest of the hotel room.

Sofia and Sara were standing in the doorway, waiting for direction from him.

"Sofia, you're with me. Sara, I want you to go with Brass and question whomever found her. Then see if you can track down any information about who had this room recently. It's likely our vic hasn't been dead for very long."

Sara scowled, clearly upset that she was being shuffled off to do the less interesting work. Grissom sensed her irritability, but ignored it. It was best that she be kept on the sidelines for these types of cases.

He suspected it wasn't exactly fair, but he promised himself he was going to supervise her better. And as her supervisor, he had to set limits for her, and keep her within them.

Sofia smiled brightly at him. "Shall we get started, then?" she asked.

"Certainly," he replied. And he turned away from Sara, leaving her to fend for herself with Brass and the hotel staff.

oooooooooooooooooooooo

A week had passed since they'd found the young woman in the Tangier's hotel room. Her case was horrific. She had been repeated raped and assaulted. No trace of the perp's DNA was found on or within her. Their killer had cleaned every orifice of the woman with bleach. Due to their complete lack of evidence, the case remained unsolved, joining the others on his "fish" board. Grissom hoped that particular killer was a one-shot type, and not a serial. He figured it was an isolated incident, as the woman was a dancer, and had recently moved to the area. She had no friends in Nevada, and her only remaining relative was her 87-year-old mother, permanently residing in a nursing home in Florida.

Brass had reported that the elderly woman didn't understand that her only daughter had been murdered. Clearly the woman was in some degenerative mental state. She also hadn't understood their request for her to claim her daughter's body, so the state wound up handling the final arrangements for the victim. The whole case was tragic, and left all of them in a somber mood for days.

Grissom felt strongly about his decision to keep Sara away from these types of cases. If she had been primary with him on the case, it would have upset her greatly. He wasn't sure how she would have handled it. He could see her flying to Florida to talk with the victim's mother. Sara just got too attached.

Until he was confident that she wouldn't let her emotions get the best of her, he would keep her on the sidelines. Grissom liked to think of it as protecting her and her career.

He suspected Sara didn't agree, and he wasn't surprised to see her standing in his doorway at the end of shift.

"Griss, do you have a minute?" Her tone was casual and polite, but Grissom suspected why she was there.

"I do."

"I… I was wondering if there was a problem with my performance lately. Something I had done wrong…?"

"No, your performance has been excellent."

"Then… why are you keeping me away from the abuse and rape cases?"

That was Sara. Always blunt.

"Because you aren't ready for them."

"Excuse me? Forgive me, Grissom, but how are you gauging if I am ready or not ready? It isn't like we've spoken about… anything… since I got suspended…" Her voice trailed off, but she didn't break eye contact with him. She wanted answers.

"Do you feel you are ready?"

"Honestly, I don't know," she said sincerely. "And I really won't know until I'm put in the situation. If I feel it is a problem, I will dismiss myself from the case."

She paused, and her eyes bore into his own, the emotion deep and real. There was an unspoken question hovering between them.

"I'm sorry, Sara. I can't put you in a situation that would compromise you, your job, or this lab. Blame Ecklie and his politics for that, but really – it just isn't worth the risk."

Sara said nothing, but her eyes spoke volumes.

He sighed. "It isn't that I don't trust you…"

"Oh?" she choked.

"Sara… it isn't like that. You have to know… it isn't like that… it's just…"

And he felt himself shutting down yet again. Again at a loss for words; again unintentionally causing her pain.

"No," she said definitively. "I understand. I understand completely. I won't be a bother."

"Sara…" he pleaded. But she turned and walked out the door, and disappeared into the lab. And he let her go.

As the days after their conversation passed into weeks, Grissom held firm with his decision, and he kept Sara away from the sensitive cases. This actually had him spending a lot of time with Sofia, and it wasn't entirely unpleasant.

But he wasn't about to cross any boundaries with her, and ruin the working relationship. No, he had learned his lesson the hard way, and he wouldn't repeat the same mistake twice.

Sara, on the other hand, had seemed to accept his decision, and there appeared to be no animosity between them. They didn't talk about anything but work, and that was fine by him. She also appeared content with her role of mentoring Greg. He was pleased that she had seen the wisdom of his words, and he hoped she was learning to deal with her demons on her own.

He would watch, and wait. Someday she would be ready, and when she was, they would work together again. They would restore the friendship that was there so long ago. It would take some time, but it would be worth it. Grissom missed their camaraderie most of all.

He had time. She was here, and one day she'd be ready, and everything would work itself out.

_All in due time_, he thought. _All in due time_.

_... end prologue ...  
_

_continued in part 1 ->  
_


	2. part1chap1

... _part 1, chapter 1…_

The lab was quiet except for the muted background sounds of people going about their nightly routines. Grissom looked down at his watch for the tenth time this evening; it was 3:32 a.m.

Sara had still not shown up for work, and he hadn't heard from her all night. The last time he saw her was two nights ago, after shift. He watched her leave the lab, her coat slung over her arm. And last night was her only night off for this week. She should be here tonight. The lab needed her.

_Where was she?_

This was atypical of Sara. She lived here; the lab was her home, her family. On the rare occasion that she had to be someplace else, she had always notified him days in advance.

Except the one time when the stomach flu hit her pretty hard, but even then, that afternoon she had left messages on his voicemail at work, on his cell phone, and on his answering machine at home.

Grissom picked up his phone and dialed Sara's cell phone. After six rings, he heard her familiar monotone of "Sidle. Leave a message." Grissom hung up before the message finished, although he knew his call would be logged on her caller id.

He had balked. He didn't know what to say to her. He didn't want her to think he was worried about her, despite the fact that he was. It sounded lame, even to him, to leave a "Where the hell are you?" message.

What she did with her life was not his business.

However, he could justify that since she hadn't given prior notification of taking tonight off, it was within his supervisory rights to question her whereabouts.

He picked up his phone, calling Sara's cell phone again. This time, he left a message.

"It's Grissom. Call me."

His voice was stern. Perhaps this would make her think twice before taking another night off without telling him.

The remainder of the evening was uneventful. As Grissom readied himself to leave, he tried to shake away the nagging pressure in the back of his mind.

_Where was she tonight? _

oooooooooooooooooooooo

The next night Sara was still a no-show. She had not called, either. Grissom's prickling fear of the unknown was growing.

At assignments, Grissom asked Greg if he knew where Sara was.

"No," Greg replied, not meeting Grissom's gaze. "I don't know where she is."

"Greg, she's missed two nights now, without explanation. She could be fired over this. If you know where she is, you need to tell me."

Greg didn't lift his head as he muttered, "Maybe you should ask Ecklie."

Grissom's eyes widened for a brief second. _Why would Ecklie know?_

"Greg, you go with Sofia to help her with last night's homicide investigation. You're both dismissed."

Grissom rose quickly, brushed past his team, and almost sprinted to Ecklie's office. The door was open, but Ecklie was on the telephone, so Grissom knocked on the doorway to get his attention.

Ecklie held up his hand, indicating that Grissom was to wait. Grissom did not, and strode into Ecklie's office, seating himself in an office chair.

Ecklie covered the mouthpiece of his phone with his left hand, and whispered hoarsely, "I am _busy._ I'll catch up with you later."

"I can wait," Grissom replied.

Ecklie looked like he was holding back an eye-roll as he turned away from Grissom.

"I'll have to call you later, okay?" he told his caller. "Yes, someone has shown up in my office. Bye…" Ecklie's tone was friendly, or as friendly as Ecklie could make it… not counting the ever-present coating of slime in his voice.

"What is it, Gil?" Ecklie asked, obviously perturbed.

"Sara Sidle did not show up for work last night, nor tonight. I have received no word from her regarding this…" Grissom let his words trail off, not wanting to admit that he was concerned about Sara. Especially to Ecklie.

Ecklie sneered at Grissom, his eyes radiating his self-assumed superiority, and Grissom's heart sank. _Shit… Ecklie knows where she is. _

"CSI Sidle has requested a leave of absence. Based on her history, and her behavior earlier this year, I agreed. I approved her request last week."

Grissom's jaw didn't slam to the floor, as a part of him wasn't surprised that Sara had done this. However, a large sliver of rejection and loss stabbed him. He immediately brushed it aside, dismissing it from his mind.

Ecklie continued with his superiority act. "I did ask her why she wasn't discussing this with you, her _supervisor_. She replied that she felt more comfortable with me. She also requested that I keep the matter private."

Grissom blinked. That made no sense. Sara _hated_ Ecklie. Why would she prefer to talk to him?

The realization of the truth pounded into him. _She didn't want me to know. _

His defensive instincts were triggered by the assault, and sent his brain into high gear. _I have to see that request. _Grissom scowled slightly, it chafed him to have to beg for this information from Ecklie. It was time to be sneaky. Ecklie wasn't all that bright.

"Who do you intend to replace her with, Conrad? Night shift is overloaded now – we can't afford this loss."

"CSI Brown has volunteered to work double shifts to cover any slack. I told him he could start the next pay cycle, next Monday."

"Warrick can't do doubles forever," Grissom stated.

"I'm aware of that, Gil. I told him to continue for as long as he could, while I looked for a more permanent replacement."

This did not bode well. If Ecklie needed to find a replacement, Sara must have requested a significant amount of time off.

"Why didn't you discuss this with me? Finding a replacement for Sara falls under _my_ jurisdiction, not yours."

"Honestly, Gil, I figured you couldn't be bothered with mundane office responsibilities, such as personnel issues." Ecklie replied, waving his hand absently at Grissom. "You haven't shown to be interested… or capable of handling these types of things in the past."

Grissom's temper flickered, but he maintained control. Ecklie wasn't playing along in the 'provide information' game, so Grissom tried a new approach. "You're right, Conrad. In the past I have not handled some of my supervisory responsibilities as well as I should have."

Ecklie gaped at him, clearly surprised that his adversary was admitting a weakness.

"I would like to improve upon this. My lack of proper management most likely attributed to the loss of CSI Sidle." Grissom forced his tone to be regretful, and without malice. _The things I'll do for information… _"I apologize for this, Conrad. I would like to remedy the situation by actively recruiting a suitable replacement. You should not have to cover for me on this one."

Ecklie was openly staring at Grissom, his mouth wide, his eyebrows almost touching his hairline.

"May I have CSI Sidle's file? I'd like to review her skill set and her contributions to this lab. This way I can document what her replacement's minimum requirements should be. Once I have those, I should be able to find a suitable replacement in no time. The lab should not suffer due to my mistakes."

Grissom kept his head slightly lowered, and his eyes averted, as if he was truly admitting to the abundance of bullshit that just left his mouth.

Ecklie was stunned, and blinked to recover his composure. "I'm… I'm… glad you feel this way, Gil. Admitting to your failures will help you become a better supervisor."

Ecklie's tone was haughty, and Grissom literally bit his tongue to keep from spewing forth the words flashing through his mind. He kept his eyes averted, as Ecklie continued his diatribe.

"This will be beneficial for you in the long run. I'm glad that you've finally realized this. I was concerned about your reactions to Sidle's suspension earlier this year, but I see now that it wasn't personal at all."

Grissom tried very hard to be still and not react to Ecklie's words in any way.

"I have her file here on my desk… somewhere…" Ecklie began sorting through the neat stacks of paper covering his desk. Grissom waited patiently, maintaining his self-control. "Here," Ecklie said, handing the manila folder to Grissom. "I'm sure I don't need to remind you that this is private information, so please keep it secured when it is not in your possession. Keep me updated in your search for a replacement."

"I will, Conrad," Grissom replied as he took Sara's file. He then swallowed hard, almost gagging on his next words. "I'm glad we could discuss this… like professionals." Grissom even forced himself to smile politely at Ecklie. Ecklie grinned back at him, gloating slightly over his perceived victory.

Grissom walked out of Ecklie's office, Sara's file in hand. Although the whole conversation left a horribly rancid taste in his mouth, making him grimace slightly, he was pleased he had what he wanted. Step One of gathering the evidence was complete.

Grissom placed the file in his desk drawer when he returned to his desk. He would review its contents at home. _There is no need to review it here_, Grissom rationalized. He would need some time to read all the papers, and here at work, he was busy. He had better things to do. Right?

A squeak of alarm pinged in the back of his mind. Was it legal to take personnel files home? Most likely it was a gray area. Reviewing it was work-related. He was determining the qualifications needed of the new replacement, wasn't he?

Grissom sighed, knowing his true aversion to reading it at work was personal. He didn't know what was in there, and he didn't want anyone to see him react. His mind knew that Sara's leave of absence was most likely permanent, but his heart was vehemently denying it at the present moment. Delaying the inevitable.

The inevitable eventually came at the end of his shift. Grissom placed the file in his bag and left the lab. He considered driving by Sara's apartment to look for her car, but decided against it. He was tired, dirty, and starving. He needed a shower and some breakfast.

Once at home, Gil showered and made himself a bowl of Cheerios with whole milk. He spread out the contents of the file on his kitchen table, noticing at first the not-entirely flattering photo paper-clipped in the upper left hand corner of the papers.

He removed it gently, studying it. _Of course I will see her again, right?_

He placed it to the side as he flipped through the paperwork, eating his Cheerios. Most were reports on her performance. His bold script voicing her name stood out to him. Tingles of loss crept into his mind. What if he would never write her name again? Never write another performance evaluation for her?

The defense of denial returned as he shook his head. She was still here, in Vegas. She had an apartment here. Her life was _here_.

He found the leave of absence request buried in the back of the pile. In Sara's handwriting, he eyes confirmed what his mind already knew.

**Leave Duration**: _Indefinite_

Under the "Reason For Leave" category, the "Other" box was checked, and the section beneath citing "State Reason" Sara had handwritten the following:

_personal_

Ecklie must have loved this. Gil was surprised that he even signed it without additional justification of her reasons.

Again, it was clear that Ecklie had it out for him. Gil sighed in frustration. He could take this to Atwater, but what would it gain him? A vision of dragging a reluctant Sara back to the lab, like one would handle a disobedient puppy, came to his mind. He ran his fingers through his hair, wiping the image away.

He couldn't force her to stay at the lab. However, perhaps he could _persuade_ her to stay. Hadn't he done this before?

Gil was sure that was why she didn't come to him; she knew he would do whatever was necessary to make her stay. He didn't regret sending her a plant, but thinking back on it, he felt a little foolish about it. He should have talked to her as well; explained himself better. Just sending her a gift, without any explanation, was a little callous. But, she had stayed, so the gift served its purpose.

He grabbed his cell phone and dialed. This time it went straight to her voicemail. He hung up and tried her home number. He was surprised when three tones blared into his ear, and a tinny woman's voice declared the number had been disconnected, and no new number had been provided.

_What!_

Gil was on alert now, although his body was dragging. Disconnected? Had she left Vegas? Shock mingled with panic as he tried to come to grips with what he'd heard, and what it meant. He felt lost and confused, and the need to talk to someone became overwhelming.

He called Catherine at home, knowing she'd be up, getting Lindsey ready for school.

"Hello, Gil," Catherine answered, somewhat sleepily. "What's up?"

"Cath, I think Sara left."

"Left what? The lab? A scene? What? Where are you?"

"I'm home. I think she left…" Grissom swallowed, and paused a bit for continuing. "I think she left Vegas."

"What! Since when? _What did you do, Gil?_"

"I didn't do anything!" he answered defensively. "_I have no idea what her problem is!_"

Catherine sighed heavily into the phone.

"You're her problem. Maybe we all are… But that's not important right now, okay? Look, let me get Lindsey off to school and I'll come get you… She's not answering her phone?"

"No, Cath… it says it's been disconnected."

There was a pause on the line as Catherine digested this. Gil could here the television in the background, the mumble of Lindsey's voice intermittently mixing with it.

"She requested a leave of absence, Cath. Ecklie approved it. It… she… didn't say when she'd be back."

Catherine sighed audibly into the phone. "We'll figure it out, okay? I'll be there in about an hour."

oooooooooooooooooooooo

Grissom waited patiently in Catherine's car, watching her walk up the pavement to the front door of Sara's apartment building. He turned and looked at the other cars in the parking lot.

Sara's space was empty. _She's not here. God, where is she?_

Five agonizing minutes passed until Catherine returned.

"We need to talk to the office," Catherine said plaintively. "She's not answering her door. We need to know…"

She paused as she vocalized a different possibility of Sara's disappearance.

"… we need to know if she's really moved away… or… not."

Grissom turned away from her, considering this. He never suspected Sara to be hurt, or injured. Everything was pointing towards a voluntary leave. What if she was dying, or … _dead_ in her apartment?

Catherine turned to him, and put her hand on his leg. Grissom jumped slightly, not expecting the physical contact.

"We're going to get to the bottom of this right now, okay? It's too early for the office to be open, but trust me, you can always get in touch with someone if you really need to."

She picked up the phone and dialed 4-1-1. She requested the office number for Sara's apartment complex, and waited while it connected.

Apparently an answering service was taking all calls, so Catherine had the service write down her cell phone number, indicating that it was vital the owner call her.

"It's a matter of life and death, and it involves the Las Vegas Crime Lab. Again, my name is Catherine Willows. You can call the LVPD and confirm who I am."

Catherine's voice was urgent. "Look, I know you have their emergency number, so just call it – NOW!"

Catherine disconnected and Grissom shot her a questioning look.

"Involves the lab?"

"Sure it does. One of our CSIs may be in danger. It's our job to check it out."

Grissom shot her a look but remained silent.

Catherine looked away from him, scanning the parking lot. "We'll give the owner five minutes to call back, and if they don't, we'll just initiate Plan B."

They sat in silence for a while. Grissom's curiosity finally got the best of him.

"What's Plan B?"

Catherine smirked at him. "You might not like Plan B, but it is a very effective way of determining whether or not Sara's in that apartment."

Grissom narrowed his eyes at her. "Sounds like Plan B might not be legal."

"Ehh… legal… not legal… we're the law, right?"

The chirp of Catherine's cell interrupted their conversation.

"Hello? Yes. Catherine Willows, Las Vegas Criminalist. Yes… Yes, I'm sure they did. The police department works very closely with the crime lab. Do you recall a Ms. Sara Sidle? She resides in apartment 311 in Building B. No? Well, is there a way that we can access her apartment? We have reason to believe she may be in danger. A key?"

Catherine paused. "Really?" More pausing as Catherine listened to the caller, an expression of bewilderment on her face.

"For situations like this huh? Okay. Thanks."

Catherine flicked her cell phone closed, and turned to Grissom.

"You aren't going to believe this. Each building has a set of five master keys. Apparently they use the same five locks over and over again."

"Doesn't that mean that someone's key could unlock their neighbor's door as well as their own?"

"Yup. It gets better. They store a ring with the master keys in each building. It's hidden, but anyone who knows where it is could pick the whole building clean."

"Okay," Grissom was growing restless. "So where are these keys?"

"You won't believe it. Come with me."

They both walked into the apartment building, the faint scent of mold and carpet freshener hovering in the air.

Catherine stopped, and turned to smile at him. "Look around, Doctor Detective. What do you see?"

"You. The stairs. Doors. Carpet. A garbage can with an ashtray. A potted plant… The plant."

"Aha, but not exactly _in_ the plant," Catherine replied. "Check this out."

They both walked over to the dusty plastic plant. The plant's "dirt" was arts-and-crafts twigs and moss covering a dark Styrofoam core.

Catherine tipped the plant on its side, and since it was a big, rather heavy plastic plant, it sort of crashed when it fell. One of the smaller leaf sections broke off as well.

"Oops," Catherine muttered without a hint of remorse, while Grissom frantically scanned the hallway for people. It was a good thing that Sara's apartment complex didn't have video surveillance.

"C'mere," she said. "Look. Under the plant. At the pot."

Sure enough, along the bottom of the pot was a strip of duct tape. Catherine peeled it off, revealing a rectangular hole, and in it was one of those black key boxes.

Grissom felt the urge to put on his gloves, and instinctively went to his vest pockets. However, he didn't have his vest on, so his hands sort of slid down his sides.

Catherine noticed, and said, "If you're worried about prints, we'll use these."

And she pulled out two plastic sandwich bags from her pockets.

Grissom blinked, looking at the small plastic bag she'd handed him, while Catherine stuck her hand in hers, and retrieved the black box.

"You carry these around with you?" he asked her.

"Hey, you never know when you'll have to pick up something nasty," Catherine shrugged.

Keys in hand, they both made their way upstairs to Sara's apartment.

_continued next chapter ->  
_


	3. part1chap2

_... part 1, chapter 2 ... _

Grissom's heart pounded in his chest as Catherine fiddled with the keys, trying to find the right one to unlock Sara's door. She found the match on her third try.

Catherine turned to him, and motioned for him to stay put. "Let me just check it out first, okay?"

Grissom nodded, and turned away. _If something has happened to her… _

Catherine walked inside the apartment, and Grissom heard her gasp sharply. Panic rose, only to be immediately squelched as Catherine said, "It's okay, Gil. She isn't here. Nothing is here."

Grissom walked into the apartment, and stopped dead cold two steps past the doorway.

Everything was gone. _Everything_. Her furniture, her photos on the walls, _everything._ Even the familiar scent of her was fading, leaving only an odor of pine cleaner and the slightly stuffy smell of uninhabited space.

Catherine was over near Sara's kitchen, looking around.

"Looks like she left some things behind," Catherine said solemnly.

Grissom walked over to her and noticed a plant and a book left on the countertop next to the stove. He walked into the kitchen to get a closer look, a slow, sinking feeling in his stomach.

Grissom moved the plant to read the title of the textbook. _Entomology For The Forensic Scientist._

This was his gift. He gave her this. And the plant was most likely _his_ plant. He poked his finger into the potting soil. It needed water.

Catherine was wandering around in Sara's bedroom. He heard her voice echo in the small, empty space.

"There's nothing in here, either, Gil. Looks like she's packed up and moved on."

Grissom picked up the book, tucking it under his arm, and hefted the plant with the other.

"Let's go, Catherine," he called quietly.

Catherine walked out of the bedroom and eyed him strangely when she saw what he was holding.

"You're taking that stuff?"

Grissom nodded. "I paid for it."

Catherine blinked, understanding. "Ah… _the plant_. I didn't know about the book though…"

Grissom looked away from her, slightly embarrassed. Catherine came up behind him, and touched him lightly on his arm.

"Hey, look. We'll ask around at work. Maybe somebody knows what happened, okay?"

Grissom nodded, and followed her as she walked to the door. She pulled the keys from her jacket pocket, and glanced at him, waiting for him to leave. She was giving him time, if he needed it.

Grissom looked back, knowing he would never see this apartment again. He turned quickly and walked out the door.

Catherine locked up behind him, and once downstairs, she replaced the set of master keys. She righted the plastic plant in the main hallway, but it had clearly seen better days.

Grissom followed Catherine as she threw the broken plastic leaves in the garbage and walked out the door.

They drove back to his home in silence.

oooooooooooooooooooooo

Gil placed the plant on his kitchen countertop along with the textbook. He went to his cabinets and got a large glass. After letting the water run for a while, to come up to a lukewarm temperature, he filled the glass and gave the plant a long needed drink. The plant didn't thank him for his kindness, but caring for it made Gil feel a little better.

He sighed. Sara was gone. He didn't know how she did it, but she clearly had moved on, taking everything with her, except his gifts. _Ouch_.

Realistically, she only had two days to remove everything from her apartment, unless she had done it during the daytime, and still worked at night.

He supposed that movers could have helped in this regard. She must have hired them to help her.

But where had she moved _to_? Where had she gone?

Gil felt exhausted and emotionally drained. He carried the plant into the bedroom, and placed it on his bureau, where it would get some of the midday sun. He took of his jeans and his shirt, folding them neatly and laying them on a chair in the corner. His socks he threw into the hamper. Clad only in his boxers, he lifted his sheets and crawled into bed, remembering to set the alarm on his clock radio.

As he drifted off to sleep, he felt hollow, disconnected from himself.

_Where had she gone? And why?_

oooooooooooooooooooooo

That night at the lab, Grissom had a package on his desk – a large orange envelope with a UPS label. Inside he found Sara's cell phone and her badge. The phone made sense; it was the property of the crime lab. However, the badge was meant to be hers until she fully resigned.

Grissom wondered why she hadn't done this outright. Why a leave of absence? Why not quit?

Perhaps she didn't want to stick it out for the expected two weeks after she gave notice. He suspected Sara really didn't want anyone to know she was leaving. He could relate to this, as he didn't want a big dog and pony show when he finally left this job. He planned to just quietly disappear.

Still, rationalizing her actions didn't take away the hurt.

After assignments, he held Greg back.

"Greg, I'm sure you are aware that Sara is on a leave of absence."

Greg nodded, but said nothing.

"Look… do you know where she went?"

"She wouldn't tell me. I asked, but she said she'd call me when she was settled. That's all she said."

Greg frowned, and Grissom sensed he wasn't the only one that was personally affected by Sara's departure.

"I haven't heard from her," Greg said dully. "I haven't heard from her at all."

Grissom prodded Greg further. "Do you know why she felt she had to leave, Greg? Did she say why?"

"No," he replied. "And that's what is really strange about it. She told me when she was leaving shift on Monday that she wasn't coming back to the lab again. That she was taking a leave of absence, and that I shouldn't worry because I'd do fine on my own. I was totally shocked. I tried to convince her to stay, but she was serious, and told me that it was already a done deal. She said Ecklie had already approved it. She even took her stuff from her locker. I watched her do it. She put it in a plastic bag and slung her coat over it, so nobody would know. I asked her where she was going, and she didn't answer. She said 'I just need to get away...' I asked her why, and she didn't say anything… whatever it was – it made her sad. I'm sure of it."

Greg paused, unsure of whether or not to continue. Grissom tried to look encouraging.

"She… told me not to tell to you, or anyone. She said she didn't want some emotional farewell, and she didn't want everyone asking her questions. And then she left."

Grissom was pensive, absorbing this information. He must have gotten lost in thought, because when he looked up to speak to Greg again… Greg was gone.

oooooooooooooooooooooo

A week had passed. Grissom began to withdraw into himself, as the reality of No Sara became all too apparent.

He would see Sara in the halls, but… it wasn't her. It was always someone else.

He'd see her in the Yukon next to Greg, as it pulled up to a crime scene, but then he'd blink, and the hair color would change from brunette to blonde and Sofia would be smiling at him instead.

He knew he wasn't handling the loss of Sara very well. However, he didn't know what the hell to do about it.

A knock on his office doorway brought him out of his fog. He seemed to be zoning out a lot lately, too.

"Hey." It was Catherine.

"Hey, Cath."

"I wanted to see how you were doing. I talked with Nick and Warrick and they both claimed to know nothing about Sara leaving."

"I suspected as much," Grissom said plaintively.

"They miss her, too. Nick more than Warrick. How's Greg holding up? He and Sara have been attached at the hip for the past eight months."

"Greg'll be fine."

Catherine sighed slightly and settled into a chair.

"How about you…" she asked quietly.

Grissom was silent for a minute before answering, "I'm fine."

"You know, we can find out where she is. Nick is the one who originally suggested it, but I told him to hold off until I talked to you." Catherine paused, and looked at him pointedly. "We _could_ run a trace on her."

"No we can't, Cath. We have no warrant and no reason to invade her privacy."

"But Gil, think of it. We can see where she is. Credit card transactions, ATM withdrawals, job applications, all that. If she has a new apartment, they'll have to run her credit. That'll show up in her credit report."

"Catherine. It's unethical."

"So? Who's going to know? We run these reports all the time. What's one more?"

Catherine grinned at him sneakily, and Grissom mentally groaned. Catherine _wanted _to snoop into Sara's whereabouts.

Grissom's resolve was wavering. It wasn't ethical, and he wasn't sure whether it was legal. He'd never considered using the lab's resources to find Sara. _Well, not really._

"C'mon … bend a few rules for once. It's for a good cause. Call it an exercise in closure. We all want to know."

Grissom sighed, not in agreement, but in frustration.

Catherine pounced on his lack of a definitive 'no' and said, "Good! Let's go."

"Catherine! That was not a 'Yes'! I do _not_ agree with this!" Grissom stated harshly.

"Okay, fine. But I do. You can be an innocent bystander."

Grissom sighed again, and followed Catherine to the computers. A part of him felt like he was in tenth grade again, playing hookey for the first time. _I'm too old for this._

Catherine thrived on bending the rules to fit her whim, so she was in her element as she logged on to the computer. Grissom had seen her like this before at crime scenes; she lived for the thrill.

Grissom preferred the science, but a scientist's curiosity kept his eyes glued to the screen as Catherine typed "Sara Sidle" into the credit reporting site.

Quite a few showed up, over 300.

"Griss, do you know her soc.?" Catherine asked.

"No, Catherine. I'm not giving you her soc."

"Well then I guess we'll be here for a while won't we? What a waste… we could have all this done in five minutes if we had her social security number, but nooo… Mr. Ethics Committee had to ruin the party."

Grissom scowled. Sara's social security number was in her file. Which happened to be locked in his lower desk drawer. He had neglected to return it to Ecklie.

"Bend the rules, Gil," Catherine whispered in his ear as she leaned in close to him. "It doesn't hurt. I promise."

Grissom left Catherine, and returned three minutes later with a yellow Post-It note.

"Here. Don't say I never gave you anything," he chided her.

"Ah. Thank you. Welcome to the dark side. Are you going to pull up a chair, or what?"

Grissom wheeled over a chair from another computer, as Catherine typed in the numbers.

Sara Sidle's credit history popped up immediately. It listed her apartment as her last known address. No recent requests had been made.

_Crap._ Dead end.

"We need to get her credit card transactions," Catherine said. "And her bank account statements."

Catherine scanned the credit report for Sara's credit card companies. She got Sara's account numbers and wrote them down on the yellow Post-It. She closed the window, and opened another, logging onto the site that tracked credit card transactions.

Catherine entered in the credit card number, and Sara's credit card history popped up. Again, it showed nothing in the past month. Sara wasn't using her credit card.

"Shit! What is she doing? Using cash for everything?" Catherine was getting mildly annoyed.

Grissom suspected Sara knew that they could track her via the lab's resources, and was again keeping her whereabouts unknown. He had to respect her for being devious about this. She was doing a pretty good job of covering her tracks.

Catherine closed out the credit report and opened another window. She entered in Sara's soc. again, and got Sara's bank account number.

"She has to be spending money. You can't survive without money. Where are you, girl?"

Catherine opened yet another window and entered in the account number. The balance was $0.00.

"Okay. She wiped out her bank account. Let's see how much she had in there."

More typing as Catherine continued her information quest. Grissom was so engrossed in watching her, and Catherine was so engrossed in her task, that neither of them noticed that they had company.

"Hey, folks." Jim Brass's voice startled both of them, and Grissom was sure he wore the same 'I-Didn't-Do-It' expression that Catherine was wearing.

"What are we up to?" Brass asked quietly.

"Research," Catherine replied hastily. She minimized the two windows that were up on the computer.

"I see. I also saw Ms. Sidle's name at the top of that screen, Ms. Willows. I'm sure you both do not need to be reminded that company resources are not for personal use, let alone the numerous violations of invasion of privacy you just committed."

Catherine's voice was snotty. "Are you going to rat us out Jim, or what?"

Brass chuckled quietly to himself. "No, I figured you'd be up to this sooner or later. I've already checked myself."

Grissom choked. "What!"

"You aren't the only old man in this town who cares about her, you know."

Grissom flushed, turning away.

"Oh give me a break, Gil. You think I was born yesterday? Quit being such an ostrich."

Grissom's brows narrowed. Jim had been a friend for a long time, but having his faults thrown in his face, in front of Catherine, was humiliating. Plus, Jim carried enough authority that if he reported them to Ecklie, his claim would be taken seriously. Grissom doubted he would, but he could.

Brass turned to Catherine. "She's wiped out her bank account, and she had over five grand in there. I also found out she rented a storage bay over in Henderson. That's probably where her furniture is."

"So where do you think she went, if she isn't moving all her stuff with her? Is she on vacation?"

"If she is, she didn't fly there. No plane tickets for her at all."

Catherine paused, thoughtful. "She's driving. She's driving somewhere."

"Most likely," Jim replied.

"But where?" Grissom asked. "Where would she go?"

Brass turned to him. "I have no idea. You know her best, Gil. Think. Where _would _she go? Where's she comfortable?"

"I dunno," Grissom replied. "And it isn't like I haven't thought about it. A year ago, I would have thought California, but… I don't think she'd go there now."

Since Sara's revelation about her past, Grissom was pretty confident that she wouldn't return to her home state. He suspected she'd want to start over - someplace without any emotional baggage.

"She did mention once that she wanted to work for the FBI," Grissom said, recalling their conversation from years ago. "It's possible she went to D.C."

"If she's driving east, she's got to be stopping for food and places to stay," Catherine reiterated. "Eventually she'll have to use her credit cards, or get an apartment, and a job. She's gotta run out of money sometime."

Brass smiled at them. "Look, why don't you guys get back to work. I have the same resources that you have here, and I'll keep on the lookout for her. When I get a hit on something, I'll let you know."

Grissom half-smiled, grateful, even though he knew Jim was risking a possible suspension for this. Heck, they all were. He was sure that this type of snooping was not allowed.

Catherine logged off the computer, clearly disappointed that her spy game was over. She smiled at Brass despite her disappointment.

"Thanks, Jim. Let him know first, okay?"

Jim nodded as Catherine walked away.

Grissom didn't say anything as Brass looked at him.

"Any ideas on what you're going to do once we find her?" Brass asked.

Grissom blinked. "Do? Why should I do anything? She left."

"Oh, I dunno…" Brass sang. "I thought you might go find her, talk to her, beg her to come back, so that you don't die a withered old man surrounded by your cockroaches."

"Jim! You're out of line."

"Am I?" Brass's voice was smug.

"Yes, you are."

"Okay. So I am. I've been totally out of line watching you mope around for the past week. I was out of line when I heard you just about declare your love for her to some suspect. I'm also out of line for watching her drink herself into a DUI over you. In fact, I'm just _so_ out of line for watching the two of you make goo-goo eyes at each other for the past _five years_."

Brass was in Grissom's face, sneering. "Yup. I'm out of line, aren't I, Gil?"

"Back off, Jim."

"Fine. _Fine._ I'll back off." He stepped back two paces, arms up in the defensive. "You just snuggle up with those roaches. I'm sure they'll keep you nice and warm when you're cold and lonely."

Grissom was silent as Brass stared him down. Brass badgered suspects for a living, and was very, very good at it. Being on the receiving end of his taunts was not extremely pleasant. But Grissom and Brass had gone rounds before, so Grissom knew how to play his game. Yet Brass was in rare form today.

"Are you cold and lonely, Gil? How's your apartment feeling these days? Is it cold?"

Grissom didn't answer. Perhaps he should have.

"My apartment is really cold, Gil." Brass started pacing slowly, a hawk hovering over its prey. "You know, I'll bet there are a lot of men in this lab with cold apartments."

Brass paused a moment before continuing, his tone thoughtful. "I could go find her myself. She likes me; I'm her friend. I'll go visit her in D.C., or wherever the hell she is. I'll bring her some flowers, and I'll take her out to dinner. I'll make her smile, and laugh, and maybe… if I'm lucky… maybe she'll give me a nice, big hug when I take her home."

Brass stepped towards Grissom, and leaned in close.

"Who knows," Brass whispered in Grissom's ear, "maybe I can cop a feel of her sweet ass."

Grissom stiffened, but he wasn't about to take the bait.

"Little Greg Sanders is her new best friend, right? And we all know he'd be _delighted_ if they were more. I'll bet she'd be really happy to see her friend if he went to visit her. If he played his cards right, he'd probably get more than a big hug, too. Much more. I've seen him working out in the gym over at the PD. He isn't a young little lab rat anymore."

"And let's not forget Stokes, either. I always liked them together. They have a lot in common, you know? And they don't have that huge 'age' problem. They could screw like rabbits and raise little CSI babies together."

Grissom's temper was beginning to flare as Brass continued to taunt him.

"He's probably better for her than little Sanders. I don't know why Stokes never acted on it while she was here. It couldn't be because of you, because we all know that you _can't do it_, right? Maybe you should give Nick the okay to go after her instead. I'm sure Sara'd appreciate Nick's flavor of friendship, you know? I know he'd appreciate her"

Brass leaned in close for the kill.

"Do you think he'd get to fuck her on the second date? Or would he have to wait until the third? It shouldn't take more than three, though, ya think? You could ask him what she felt like when he got back. Then you'd know."

"That's enough, Jim," Grissom growled.

"Enough of what, Gil? She's not yours… you didn't have the balls then, and clearly you don't have the balls now."

Grissom exploded, and whirled in his chair to face Brass, banging his fist on the table.

"_THAT… IS… ENOUGH!_"

Brass didn't back away. Instead he blinked and smiled brightly at his friend, meeting him face-to-face.

Grissom sighed, his anger retreating as quickly as it had flared.

"Happy now, Jim?"

"This isn't about _my_ happiness, Gil," Brass spoke quietly, backing off as he laid a hand lightly on Grissom's shoulder. "Look, realistically, you don't have to _do_ anything. Just… think about it for a bit."

Grissom was left alone with his thoughts and the whir of the computers as his friend turned and walked out of the room.

_ continued next chapter -> _


	4. part1chap3

_ ... part 1, chapter 3 ... _

Another week dragged on. Brass was apparently checking on a daily basis, but no signs of Sara were popping up.

Grissom felt he was a patient man in most regards. He could wait, right? Catherine had said it; eventually Sara would appear on their radar.

Time seemed to be waging war with Grissom, however. The minutes of each night dragged on forever. And crime in Vegas was on an unplanned holiday. They hadn't had a new case in three days. It was bizarre.

The lack of crime scenes to investigate forced him to finish the majority of his delinquent administrative paperwork, and he caught up on organizing his case files. He'd finished everything he could possibly think of doing two hours ago.

Grissom was… absolutely and unequivocally… bored out of his freaking mind.

In the last hour and half, he'd surfed the Internet, sent an e-mail to his mother, and read today's newspaper. He was halfway through the crossword puzzle, and not a very challenging one at that, when Brass appeared in his doorway.

"Hey," he said.

Grissom said nothing, as his eyes spoke for him.

"Sorry, Gil. Nothing so far. Slow week, hmm?"

"Yeah…"

Grissom looked back towards his crossword, not feeling very sociable. Jim knew his friend well enough to read the signs.

"I'll stop by later, maybe bring us some lunch, okay?"

"Sure. That'd be good."

Brass walked away, leaving Grissom to his crossword. But the interruption had broken Grissom's concentration, and after staring at the paper for a few minutes, his mind began to wander.

What would he do on the day when Brass walked into his office, and told him where Sara was? He had no idea. He had run numerous scenarios through his head, where he found her and tried to speak with her. In each, she was angry, and she would ask him why he was there. And each time, he had no answer for her.

Maybe he should just let her go. Leave her alone and let her start a new life. A life without him.

The thought made his heart ache, and he sighed aloud. When had their relationship become so complicated? In the beginning, they had been friends. She had earned his trust in a way he'd never forget. He smiled at the memory. Sara was always independent, and she always spoke her mind. She certainly had ripped into him at that seminar…

oooooooooooooooooooooo

"The temperature of a human body will decrease one and a half degrees Fahrenheit per hour in normal atmospheric conditions. In extreme heat and cold, this rate changes, and you, or your coroner, will need to take the conditions at the scene into consideration when determining time of death for your victims. And despite any rumors you may have heard, the temperature is still best measured through the body's liver."

Grissom paused, noting that his audience appeared extremely bored. This was typical for the beginning of his presentation; once he brought out the transparencies of past crime scenes, people tended to pay more attention.

He reached into his kit and withdrew the thermometer.

"It is best to insert the thermometer at least one half-inch below the last rib on the right side of the body. Not your right, the body's right. This allows the sensor within the thermometer to be completely embedded in the largest part of the liver."

Grissom then reached for his first slide, a photograph of a similar thermometer, inserted into a male cadaver.

He liked to start out with this slide, in order to gauge how the women in the audience would react to seeing a dead body. His first pass through the crowd didn't show many women. He wasn't surprised; most people in general didn't enter into a profession where dead bodies and gory crime scenes were par for the course.

As his lecture continued, he began to notice the young brunette sitting at the second table from his podium, in the chair closest to the aisle. She had originally appeared interested, but as he had progressed to the transparencies of the crime scenes, and described how each were processed, she had begun to frown slightly.

Her face now showed something Grissom read as disgust. Not disgust at the bloodied body being projected to a 10-foot screen behind him, but disgust with him, and his presentation.

Grissom wrapped up a little later than he had anticipated, and only eight minutes were left before his hour was up. His audience would leave to attend yet another presentation on forensic science, and he himself might attend one as well.

"Are there any questions?" he asked, suspecting that there may be a few quick ones, as usual, and then everyone would be on their way.

The hand of a dark haired man in the back shot up. Grissom nodded at him, and the man asked, "How many forensic specialists are required to be at a crime scene?"

"Well, it depends on the scene, now doesn't it? A burglary of a convenience store may require more manpower than a triple homicide, if there is more evidence at that scene then there is at the homicide. Processing the evidence is a forensic scientist's primary focus."

As Grissom was speaking, he noticed the young brunette filling out the standard survey, and she was not giving him good scores.

She stood abruptly and began to leave, triggering the other attendees to start packing up as well.

Grissom could have let her go, ending his lecture a little early, but something about her attitude irritated him, and he wanted to put her in her place. His words stopped her halfway down the aisle.

"Miss, my lecture is not finished. Please take your seat until I dismiss you."

She froze, and turned to face him. Her eyes were dark fire, and Grissom automatically put himself on alert for a verbal attack. He also noticed how attractive the young woman was in her anger.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't realize that this was a classroom, and that you were my teacher. I thought we had all graduated from tenth grade by now."

Her voice was deep, and different, and filled with sarcasm. The room was silent, and the other people who were packing up to leave immediately stopped. All eyes were on him and the young woman.

She continued, "Clearly, by your presentation, the technology at the Las Vegas Crime Lab hasn't gotten past the tenth grade, either."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Your presentation. I thought the Las Vegas Crime Lab was supposed to be second in the nation. And still, you are using outdated technology and archaic tools. I can't believe your lab doesn't have access to CODIS or AFIS, and you do print matching by _hand_."

Grissom chuckled at her, and his laughter triggered some other members of the audience to snicker as well. The young woman stiffened.

"Miss, of course we have those things at our lab. We have access to the latest and most powerful technology…"

"Well, if that is so, why are you showing us slides of how to do fingerprint matching the old fashioned way?"

This woman wasn't backing down.

"I know who you are, Doctor Grissom. I've read your publications, and I was excited about attending this seminar to hear your lectures. But if I had known that you were going to show us outdated technology, I would have saved my department the money and not wasted my time."

The audience was silent, and Grissom paled at the slur. His pride stung, he responded to her harshly.

"Madame, new growth in any technology is based on our understanding of its foundations. And today's forensic tools, although powerful, are not as stable as we'd like to believe. Twenty years ago, we did not have the luxury of computers and the powerful technology they provided. I am grateful for the wonders of innovation in forensics, but keep in mind, if there is a failure anywhere in the system, all of the technology becomes useless until the point of failure is restored."

He stared at her pointedly, and she met his gaze with a defiant one of his own. His eyes narrowed at her as he continued.

"Criminals will still commit crimes, irregardless of the availability of databases or the Internet. And it is still our job to prove them innocent or guilty. Would you prefer that a crime lab just declare an in-plant holiday on crime, if a particular server goes down, or there is a power failure? Would you give up on your duty to see justice served?"

Grissom was confident with his argument; he'd had this same exact discussion with Catherine back at the lab, numerous times in fact. You couldn't argue with his logic.

The young woman continued to stand tall, and spoke clearly in her reply. "I am not saying that understanding the history of forensics isn't important. That is not my issue. Perhaps it is best for me to say that I personally am disappointed with your presentation, and we should leave it at that." "

"And," she said as she looked down at her wrist, "this lecture is officially over, and we all have other commitments. Good day, Mister Grissom."

With that she turned and walked down the aisle toward the double doors at the end of the conference room.

The audience didn't look at him as they packed up their belongings. Grissom felt as if he had won a battle, but lost the war.

_Who was that woman?_

That same night, there was a social gathering for everyone participating in the seminar. The seminar was being held at a posh hotel in the southern suburbs of San Francisco. All attendees were staying at the hotel, and various presentations were being held at the conferences rooms on the first and second floors.

The outdoor patio behind the hotel encircled the Olympic-sized pool, and at each corner, a small thatched hut housed a modest bar with a single bartender. Drinks were on the house for the next hour and a half, and most people had changed out of their business clothing into more social attire.

Grissom wore black dress pants and a grey shirt Catherine had picked out for him, stating it made him look "hot" and "studly". At his age, he could care less, but he wanted to present himself and his lab well at these public gatherings. He wore a tie Catherine also bought for him, as it "brought out his eyes". Whatever. He was grateful for Catherine though, as he watched a few women turn their heads as he walked through the crowd. He knew his clothing presented him in a positive light.

After retrieving a bourbon with water from the nearest hut, he wandered through the crowd, looking for his friend, Charles Rourdan. He and Charlie knew each other from way back. When Grissom first worked as a coroner down in southern California, Charlie had been a young criminalist, and the two had shared many a beer after a tough case.

They both had grown up and moved on in their careers, and Charlie now led San Francisco's Crime Lab. As Grissom spotted him near the north end of the pool, he noticed the three other people standing around him. Those must be his top employees. Charlie had mentioned he was bringing his best folks with him for this seminar.

Closest to Charlie was a young woman in a short black dress and legs that made Grissom pause for a second look. This woman must be the new criminalist on his team. Grissom didn't know much about her, other than Charlie was extremely impressed with her. Grissom suspected Charlie was smitten, and wondered if he and the young woman were an item.

Across from Charlie stood a man and a younger woman, both clearly engrossed in their own conversation. Charlie and his young companion appeared to be listening to them.

Charlie must have spotted Grissom's approach out of the corner of his eye, because he faced him and hollered, "Gil! I'm so glad you decided to grace us with your presence! You must come over and bore us all to tears with your bug talk!"

Grissom glared humorously at his friend and called back, "Only if you haven't bored them already with talk of ballistics, bullet boy. By now they probably know all the patterns of striations for every legal and illegal firearm created in the past fifty years."

As Grissom stepped towards his friend, Charlie gave him a huge bear hug, and Grissom was lucky not to spill his bourbon all over himself and Charlie.

It however sloshed a little, and Grissom feared he had splashed the young woman standing next to Charlie.

"I'm extremely sorry," he spurted as he turned towards the young lady. "Charlie and I go way back, and I should have known better than to approach him with a full drink in my hand."

Grissom was looking downward, examining his shirt for bourbon spatter as he spoke to the woman. He lifted his head and eyes to face her as he said, "I hope that you weren't splashed in the process…"

His voice died off as his blue eyes met the dark, fiery brown of the young woman who had disrupted his lecture earlier today. He froze.

"Gil," Charlie preened as he thumped his hand on Grissom's shoulder, "I'd like you to meet my new CSI, Miss Sara Sidle. Sara, Dr. Gilbert Grissom."

To Grissom, time stopped for a second. This woman wasn't just attractive, she was vibrant and sensual. There was something about her… her eyes seemed to reach right into his soul. Grissom's heart had jumped into his throat, and he felt himself swallow, forcing it back down to his chest where it belonged.

Time started on its journey again as he realized this woman most likely hated his guts. Her expression seemed mild, but he saw a flicker beneath that he couldn't interpret. _Most likely horror at meeting me up close and personal._

"We've met earlier, Charles," Sara said politely. "I attended his two o'clock presentation today."

"Oh, you did?" Charlie smiled at her. "Excellent! I hope you took good notes. Dr. Grissom knows tons about forensics and is one of the most brilliant men I know."

"Charlie…" Grissom muttered, finally breaking his staring contest with Miss Sidle.

"Not to worry, boss," Sara said lightly, "I took notes, and I intend to sit in on the remainder of Dr. Grissom's lectures this week. It is clear to me that Dr. Grissom is an expert in his field." She then shot Grissom another hooded look that he couldn't understand, so he stared blankly at her in return.

"Good! Good!" Charlie beamed, oblivious to the exchange. "Glad to hear it! And Gil, before I forget, let me introduce you to Brian Stone and Madeline Hearst. They are two of my best." His voice dropped to a loud whisper. "They're also something of an item… as you can see."

Gil did indeed see the reference, as the couple continued their conversation. He noticed the woman's shy smile and the man's unspoken pride that he was the focus of her attention.

"Brian! Maddie! This is Dr. Gilbert Grissom of the Las Vegas Crime Lab. I hope you two will attend at least one of his seminars this week… if you can both find the time…"

The couple blushed slightly at the jibe, and both shook Grissom's hand and exchanged pleasantries with him.

Grissom's skill at small talk was minimal, and he wound up excusing himself after five minutes of chitchat with the couple and Charlie. Sara Sidle has drifted away sometime during the conversation, and he noticed she was standing about 6 feet away from the bar farthest from the pool, looking out over the patio into the remains of a brilliant sunset.

He approached the bar and refilled his drink. He pounded most of it and left the remainder on the shelf on the side of the thatched hut. He shored up his courage and walked over to the young woman.

He stood about three feet behind her, hesitating, but somehow, she knew he was there, and turned to face him.

"Oh, hello again," she said. Then she turned away from him, and resumed her vigil on the awakening night sky.

"You should have told him the truth," Grissom said solemnly as he walked to stand next to her, joining her in her vigil. Neither looked at the other.

"Tell him what? That I had unrealistic expectations of your lecture? That I didn't read the synopsis before I attended, and my lack of preparation caused me to waste my own time? That I made it my own personal vendetta to embarrass you in front of fifty people because you had embarrassed me, even though I was being deliberately rude to you? Which would you prefer?"

He turned to look at her at the same time she turned to look at him. He could tell she was ashamed and embarrassed by her voice, but her eyes were radiating that dark fire again.

"I see," he said. _This woman is something else._

"Would you be willing to accept an apology?" Sara smiled at him gently, her eyes shifting from fire to something softer, and Grissom found himself with his heart problem again. Sara didn't seem to notice, and continued shyly, "Sometimes my impatience gets the best of me."

Grissom said nothing for a minute, lost in his own surprise, and Sara seemed to shrink away from him. He blinked and came to his senses.

"Certainly. As long as you accept mine for putting you in an uncomfortable situation."

"Agreed." The lights surrounding the pool had turned on automatically, sensing the impending darkness, and their reflection danced across the water, highlighting her hair. A glimmer of something was reflecting in the softness of her eyes, and Grissom wasn't sure if that sparkle was coming from the lights, or from her soul itself.

The two of them broke eye contact suddenly, both feeling awkward, and stood next to each other in silence, staring at the night sky.

"So, you have a fascination with the stars?" Grissom asked quietly after a few moments had passed. He was intrigued that she hadn't felt the need to start a conversation with him.

"I do, I suppose," she replied. "There is an inherent beauty in them."

"I agree," Grissom replied, his eyes on her face, not the stars themselves. The two bourbons he'd consumed were fueling his courage, and he was openly admiring this fascinating woman.

Sara didn't notice, and continued. "They are always the same, in the same patterns. The constellations. Yet they are constantly moving across the night sky, and throughout the seasons. It's almost like they are a paradox."

"Always in motion to us, but never actually moving," Grissom replied, his mind turning philosophical.

"They are reliable," she continued. "Orion disappears from our sky in the summer, but reappears in the winter. Each year, like clockwork."

"And halfway across the world, he disappears from their summer, and reappears in their winter."

"Perhaps he doesn't like the heat," she deadpanned, and Grissom found himself laughing at her little joke. She giggled along with him, and they again simultaneously turned to smile at one another.

"Would you like to take a walk around the grounds?" he asked, surprising himself. _What did I just say?_

Sara smiled a full, fabulous smile in agreement, and Grissom was sure his heart was permanently lodged in his throat. He decided to leave it there.

She held out her arm for him to escort her, and Grissom almost fainted. _She wants me to touch her?_

He wrapped his arm in hers, hesitantly, and noted her skin felt warm through the fabric of his shirt. He led her around the pool, through the now full crowd, and they walked along the sidewalk around the hotel.

The path along the side of the hotel was landscaped with numerous flowers and shrubs. After walking together for a short while, Sara eventually extracted her arm from his to walk closer to the plants. She was clearly interested in them.

"So you're a botanist?" Grissom inquired politely.

"Oh, no," she replied. "…not really. See, I was never very good with animals. When I was eight, my mother bought me a goldfish, and it died three days later. When I was eleven, I tried a hamster, but he disappeared one day when I was cleaning his cage, and I think the local alley cats eventually got him. Either that or he died in my bedroom wall."

She chuckled to herself quietly. "Plants are a little easier for me. All they require is a little water, a little sun, and some nutrients every now and again."

She paused, reaching over to a taller shrub to examine its leaves.

"And these need a good spray of pesticide. See? Aphids."

"Ah yes, Phylus _Arthropoda, _Class _Insecta_, Order _Hemiptera_, Sub-order _Homoptera_, Superfamily _Aphidoidea_. They feast on many varieties of vegetation. A gardener's nightmare."

Sara turned and grinned slyly at him. "That's right. You're an entomologist. A forensics expert on insects."

"One of twelve in the country, m'dear."

Sara eyed him strangely, and Grissom feared he had come across as a pompous oaf.

"But… it really isn't much. It just means there are only twelve people in the country that are crazy enough to get their doctorates in crime scene creepy-crawlies."

"Oh, I dunno," she replied. "I suppose at a high level it could be very interesting. And I've always liked the prettier bugs. Some butterflies are gorgeous, and ladybugs look cute. I still am not a fan of spiders. I don't care how beneficial they are."

"They keep order. Without them, we'd be chest deep in gnats and flies. Arachnids are very useful."

"Spoken like a true bug lover," she chided him, a flirty look on her face.

"That's me," he replied merrily, going along with her flirting as they continued to walk along the sidewalk.

When they reached the front entrance, Grissom stopped. Sara stopped as well and looked at him, realizing that their small trip was about to end.

"I suppose we've run out of places to walk," Grissom stated, becoming nervous. _Now what, Romeo?_ He became clearly aware of why he'd remained single for such a long time. Romancing a lady was not his thing.

"We… could take a walk around the town…" she said, turning away. "Maybe… go get a bite to eat?"

Dinner! What a brilliant idea!

"That sounds great!" he blurted. And he immediately wanted to crawl into a hole because his voice sounded so desperate.

"Really!" she said, in almost exactly the same tone as his, and she too was bitten by the same shy fly that bit Grissom two seconds earlier.

They both knew it, and Grissom couldn't help but grin madly at her, and as she looked up at him, she echoed the same grin back. From that point on, it was unspoken and agreed upon between them. They liked each other.

_ continued next chapter -> _


	5. part1chap4

_... part 1, chapter 4 ... _

Grissom couldn't remember where they went for dinner, or how they got there. They must have talked about something, but as Grissom sat in his office, he couldn't recall for the life of him what they'd talked about.

The same went for their trip back to the hotel, although he remembered walking her to her room.

He remembered feeling awkward and shy, unsure of what she expected. But she had been polite, quickly thanking him for a wonderful evening, and she'd disappeared into her room, leaving him standing in the hallway, wondering what the hell had just happened.

It was so long ago. Did they have lunch that day, or was it the next? He remembered eating lunch with her, and attending a lecture with her. She had been fascinated by whatever it was about, and he had been fascinated by her fascination.

She didn't hold back either, and she hammered the lecturer when he had confused his facts in the presentation. She had a ruthless side to her that rivaled Catherine's. Yet where Catherine was flamboyant, Sara Sidle seemed more reserved.

Things had gotten interesting the night before the week-long seminar was supposed to end. That would have made it Thursday night. He and Sara had dinner with Charlie that night. And then things went to all to hell, and Sara… well, Sara had saved his ass.

oooooooooooooooooooooo

Sara chatted easily with her boss, sitting across from him at the four person table in the upscale steakhouse. It was clear they were comfortable with each other, and shared more than an employer/employee relationship. Grissom felt a pang of jealousy at his friend's good fortune. He again wondered if there was something sexual between them, but Sara would glance at him across her wine glass, and Grissom would swear she was silently flirting with him.

It was the last night they'd spend in the hotel, and as much as Grissom would have loved to get to know this woman better, he knew she was much younger than him. Was she just being friendly with him, or was it something more?

And really, why would she be interested in him? They had nothing in common. He enjoyed her company, and sure, she was attractive, but Grissom wasn't a one-night stand type of guy. Perhaps she was only interested in an interesting notch for her bedpost.

Grissom frowned at the thought. He just didn't know her well enough to be able to tell. And cold, cruel logic made him believe that she couldn't possibly be interested in him.

"Gil, are you with us?" Charlie questioned. He must have noticed Grissom's scowl.

"Oh… yeah, sorry. I was just thinking."

"Must be something serious," Sara said softly. "You looked like you were a million miles away."

Grissom said nothing, and began eating the porterhouse that had been resting in front of him.

He saw Charlie shoot a look to Sara, and her eyes echoed something back in return. Grissom ignored them, and decided that pursuing anything with Miss Sara Sidle was an exercise in futility. If there wasn't something between his friend and the young woman already, there soon would be. Charlie was 5 years younger than he, and much more of a ladies man than Gil would ever be.

His mood was sour as they left the restaurant, and he sat alone in the backseat of Charlie's car as Charlie drove the three of them back to the hotel.

"I'll drop you off at the front entrance and I'll go park the car. Do either of you want to hit the bar for a couple of drinks? Or should we just call it an evening?"

Sara looked over the passenger side seat at Grissom, and he returned her gaze with a stony one of his own. "Actually," she said to Charlie, "I'm pretty beat. How about I meet up with you tomorrow at breakfast? There are still a few lectures I want to see before I call it a week."

"How 'bout you, Gil?"

"I'll just head back to my room. It was good to see you again, Charlie. You take care of yourself… and your staff."

"You know I will, Gil! Everybody out!"

He and Sara exited the car and watched Charlie peel away. Charlie was always a show-off.

He turned and walked into the hotel without as much as a word to Sara, figuring she would take the hint. Clearly he'd underestimated her.

"Is something wrong?"

Grissom paused, realizing it would be extremely rude to continue walking away from her.

"You've been distant all evening," Sara continued. "Was something wrong with the restaurant?"

Grissom turned to face her, noting her concern. Guilt washed over him. This wasn't right. "No… I apologize. I… have a lot on my mind."

"Wanna talk about it? Is it about a case? You want to run through it?"

Grissom sighed and chuckled softly. "You really do love your job, don't you?"

"You want to know what I love? I'll show you. Walk with me," she said, striding past him toward the elevators. Grissom followed her without thinking.

She wound up taking him back to her room.

"I've got something I think you'll like," she told him as she opened her door with her room keycard.

Grissom swallowed hard, stalling in the doorway as she walked over towards her bed. _Was she hitting on him? Did she want to…? _ From his viewpoint in the doorway, he could see her bending over behind her bed, allowing him quite a view of her ass.

"Are you coming in, or what?" she asked as she turned to face him, presenting him with quite a view from her v-neck top.

"Uh… Sara… I…"

Sara stood, and was holding what appeared to be an old-style forensics kit, as well as two or three magazines. "I'm sorry… what?"

The flush crawled from Grissom's cheeks down to his neck. _Boy, when I'm wrong…_

"So come in. Come see my kit. I picked this up at another conference from a presenter who was retiring. They don't _make_ stuff like this anymore. Everything fits in here."

As Grissom was slowly recovering from his mistaken assumptions, he began to wonder what kind of woman brought her kit to a seminar. It wasn't like she was going to use it.

He did go into her room, and stood next to her. The analytical side of his mind noticed she kept her room tidy, but not spotless. Her kit was similar to one of his back in Vegas, and she was right – they didn't make them like that anymore.

"I have one like it. Useful, isn't it?"

Sara smiled. "It is! The newer ones don't fit everything in. And this one is a lot sturdier. And fits better into the back of my car. But _this,_ this is what I love." And she lifted up the forensics magazines.

"Knowledge. New technology. Improvements in existing technology. Innovative ideas… all of it. And all to help those who couldn't help themselves."

Her eyes were bright, and Grissom suddenly found himself lost in them. Here, in this woman, was a kindred spirit. Another soul who respected, no _loved_, the quest for knowledge in this field as much as he did. His opinion of her shifted slightly, and she was no longer just an attractive young lady at a seminar. She had become something… more.

Their eyes locked for a few more moments before Sara broke away.

"Well… I just wanted to show you. I guess… you can go now."

"Oh," he mumbled. "I guess I'll be going… unless you want to come see _my_ kit?"

"You have it here?"

He nodded. "For my presentations. Don't you remember? It's full of 'old-fashioned' and 'outdated' technology."

Sara's face flushed, and he chuckled at her. "Only teasing. C'mon, you showed me yours, now I'll show you mine."

As he led her into his room, he glanced around fretfully, hoping he didn't leave anything embarrassing out for her purview. He sighed mentally in relief, and again praised his mother for teaching him to clean up after himself.

He went to pull his kit from within the small closet, and paused when it wasn't there. That was odd. He was sure that he placed it in the closet after his final presentation this afternoon. A flicker of panic shot through him. His gun was also in that kit. There were no bullets, but the firearm was a prop in one of his presentations.

He began searching the room in earnest. Sara stood to the side, puzzled.

"Is something wrong?"

"Uh… I seemed to have misplaced my kit."

Sara blinked, realizing the implications. "Was… your gun in there?"

Grissom looked up at her, and his face said it all.

A knock at his door broke the tension. Grissom walked over and opened it.

Two police officers and a detective stood in the doorway. The detective was clearly the spokesman.

"Dr. Gilbert Grissom? We beg your pardon, but it is imperative that we speak with you. A convenience store clerk has been murdered, and a firearm registered in your name was found at the scene."

oooooooooooooooooooooo

Knocking brought Grissom's thoughts back to the present. Brass was standing in his office doorway.

"She's in Connecticut."

Grissom looked up, amazement on his face. "She showed up? In _Connecticut?_"

"Yup, sometime between last night and tonight. She was busy yesterday apparently. She's signed a lease through a…"

Brass paused as checked a printout in his hand, "… Groton Realty for an apartment in Stonington. She opened a checking account at a Citizens Bank. And, she is officially an employee of the State of Connecticut Department of Public Safety, assigned to Troop E in Montville."

"This all came through today?" Grissom asked.

"Yeah, but it all could have happened last week. Sometimes there is a delay in posting info." Brass shrugged. "Computers."

They both were quiet for a moment. Brass must have sensed that Grissom needed to process this new information in peace.

"I'll let you know what else turns up in the next couple of days."

"Hmm? Uh… okay, thanks… thanks, Jim."

"Hey, no problem."

Grissom felt a little overwhelmed. For over two weeks now, the question of "where" hung over him like a dark cloud. Now, he knew the answer.

_She's clear across the damn country. Could she get any further away?_

Grissom sighed. _What now…_

Well, for one, he could tell everyone. He was sure that Greg would want to know. Then again, Greg might already know. If he didn't, he'd pound Grissom with questions. _No thanks._

Actually, whomever he talked with would pound him with questions. Questions that he did not have the answers for. Particularly what _he_ was going to _do about it._ He had no idea.

So for three days, he did nothing. Nothing was appearing to be the best way to go. Word had traveled throughout the lab, and everyone knew Sara hadn't held back in her efforts to get away. Yet, there were no knocks on his door, no uncomfortable questions to answer.

Grissom hoped it would all blow over, giving him time to figure out what he wanted to do, without the pressure of the lab hovering over him. He knew if he left now, they'd all suspect he was chasing after her. How pathetic he'd seem. If he just went away on vacation, say, 3 months from now, they wouldn't suspect a thing.

It was a good thought, but like most bright ideas, practice is always different than theory. It was Monday night, and Grissom had peace for the remainder of the week. Then it started.

Nick was first. He was polite, almost genteel, but became increasingly agitated as Grissom skirted all the direct questions. Grissom winced when Nick slammed his office door, ending their conversation.

The following night, Greg appeared in his office, and was just as polite as Nick was. Until Grissom told him that he had no intentions of allowing anyone on his staff, including himself, any time off to go pursue fruitless endeavors. Greg left shortly after that, but without the dramatics of Nick.

Catherine was third, on night three, and she brought Brass with her. Grissom was starting to get annoyed.

"So, you are doing nothing," she stated with scorn. "All of our checking up on her, and you are doing nothing."

"That isn't true," Grissom replied. "I am doing something. I'm doing my job. See? It may not be what everyone seems to _expect_ me to do, but it is what I'm doing. You both should try it sometime. It's why they pay us."

"I think you're wrong on this one, Gil," Brass told him. "If you let this go, you'll never have another chance again. She'll move on. It is much easier to get over someone if they are a thousand miles away. By the time you're ready, she'll be lost to you."

"And?"

"You'll be alone."

"I'm alone now."

"You want to be alone forever, Griss?" Catherine was glaring at him. "Look, we all know how you feel…"

"No, you don't."

"Well, we all aren't blind. We can _see_ that there was, and still is, something between you two. And I can tell you for a fact, pal, that this is your last shot. You aren't getting any younger, and unless you plan on turning heads at the senior citizen's center, this is it for you."

"Trust me, Gil," Brass said with a hint of sadness, "it isn't easy for guys like us out there."

"It isn't easy for me, either," Catherine sighed. "You have no idea how hard it is."

"Are you both done with your middle-aged depression dialogue, or do you plan on tag-teaming me on this all night?" Grissom lowered his glasses to peer at them over the top rims. "Because, really, I have work to do."

They both stared at him, offended.

"Yes, I'm older. Yes, we're all older. One day, we'll all be so old that we'll slurp stewed peas through a straw. Being alone, or not alone, doesn't change the inevitable."

"Yes it does!" Brass barked. "You are so ignorant to your own damn emotions…"

"Enough. We're done here, Jim," Catherine interrupted. "He's clearly decided to take the easy way out. It isn't like we should be surprised."

"No," Brass replied bitterly. "We shouldn't."

Two more nights passed before Warrick knocked on his door.

"Hey, Griss. Got a minute?"

Grissom eyed him stonily; unsure if this was yet another plea from a co-worker to go and 'rescue' Sara Sidle.

"Have you come to question me, too?" he asked snidely.

Warrick paused before answering, "No. I came by to have you sign these forms from my case two nights ago."

Grissom said nothing, but reached out to grab the forms from Warrick's outstretched hand.

"There's a pool, you know," Warrick murmured. "If, and when you'll go."

"And what's your bet?" Grissom asked without looking up.

"None for me. But for the record, I know how you feel."

"Oh?"

"Fighting it all the time. Seeing her every day, but you can't make a move. Knowing it isn't right. But wanting it all the same."

Grissom said nothing, and watched quietly as Warrick continued.

"At least you know. I mean… it was obvious to all of us how she felt. She wore her heart right out there on her sleeve for everyone to see. I envy you that."

Warrick lapsed into silence. Grissom put down the papers, and took off his glasses.

"Well… Warrick… Have a seat."

Warrick looked uncomfortable, but he settled himself in the chair next to Grissom's desk. Grissom took pity on his old protégé.

"She certainly was emotional, wasn't she?" he mused. "Sometimes I wonder if it was wrong to bring her here."

"I remember why you brought her here. I resented her for a while. And she wasn't easy to work with, in the beginning." Warrick paused, a half-smile forming on his face. "But she kind of grew on you after a while, y'know?"

"Yeah, I do."

More silence as both men paused, each lost in their own thoughts.

"So yours is here, at the lab, I assume," Grissom stated.

"Yes."

"If I ask, will you tell me who?"

"No."

"Not worth the risk?" Grissom was curious. If his ladylove was just another revolving lab technician, Warrick wouldn't have hesitated to tell him.

"Not your business."

Grissom smirked, "I see."

"You'll figure it out sooner or later. I'm surprised you haven't already."

"I've been… distracted," Grissom admitted.

"Oh," Warrick grimaced at him, "is _that_ what you're calling it."

They both chuckled for a second, and Warrick stood to leave. "I should get back to work. It isn't like we don't have tons to do. My new boss runs me ragged, you know."

"I'm sure you can handle it."

"Of course. I've dealt with worse."

Grissom scowled as his jibe, and handed over the signed paperwork. When Warrick was at the doorway, Grissom stopped him with a question.

"So, are you going to tell me what your bet is, or do I need to go look it up in Greg's locker?"

"I didn't…" Warrick began, but Grissom's eyes stopped him. "Al'right. A c-note that you're gone in the two to three month timeframe. Two more that she's back within six."

"Optimist," Grissom deadpanned.

"Nah…" Warrick grinned, "…hopeless romantic. Works well with the ladies, too. You should try it sometime."

_Maybe I will, son. Maybe I will._

_ continued next chapter -> _


	6. part1chap5

_... part 1, chapter 5 ... _

Grissom called Sofia into his office one night when their casework was slow. It had been two months since Sara had left, and although her presence was still missed, Sofia, Warrick and Greg had worked well together to keep things afloat.

But Grissom couldn't help but notice the strain the double shifts were putting on Warrick. It was time for him to actively search for a real replacement. And Grissom had the perfect candidate in mind.

"Please, have a seat," he said as he gestured to his chair. "We haven't had a chance to talk in quite some time."

Sofia smiled politely and sat, eyeing him curiously. "Not since I threatened to leave."

"Are things better now?" he asked.

"I suppose," she said quietly. "Is that why you wanted to meet with me?"

"Although I'm concerned about your well-being, and I need you to stay, that isn't what this is about. I'd like to ask you how you'd feel if you were to take over as acting nightshift supervisor for a few weeks."

Sofia leaned back, slightly surprised. "Why me instead of Warrick Brown?"

"He's exhausted working double shifts. And you have more experience with what's required. You'll need to handle all my work, plus your own, plus supervise Greg on assignments. I don't want him out on his own. He isn't ready yet."

Sofia said nothing, and Grissom felt the chill of apprehension. What if she said no? When she finally looked at him, there was a slightly smug expression on her pretty face.

"You're going after her."

Grissom sighed. "I have to recruit a replacement for Sara, Sofia. That's what I plan to do. I am traveling to scout for suitable candidates."

"May I be candid with you, Grissom?"

He paused. "You may."

"Do I look completely and utterly stupid to you?"

"Uh… no, of course not. You know I respect your intelligence and experience."

"Then why lie to me?"

"I haven't lied to you."

"Okay, we'll be technical, then. Why are you being evasive? I have ears, you know. Fascinating fact for you: most humans do. Another fascinating fact: humans love to gossip. I heard how your staff pounded you when someone, somehow, found out where Sara Sidle went. They all wanted to know when you were going to go after her and drag her back 'home'. I also heard the reason why they felt this was _your_ responsibility, and believe me, that was quite a story."

_And that storyteller would be Greg, with his big, broken-hearted mouth. Thanks a lot, Greg._

"Sofia, nothing happened between Sara and I…"

She raised her hand, and Grissom's voice trailed off.

"I'm not going to even acknowledge you said that," she said with a slight snarl. "I respect you, and while she was here, I respected Sara. I didn't agree with her some of her ethics, and I do feel it was best that she moved on. But once I got the whole story, her behavior here made a lot more sense."

She focused on him with a hard stare. "You were an ass."

He blinked in surprise, but said nothing.

"As for your request, I have no problems with taking over as acting supervisor," she stated with pride. "I should warn you that I _will_ do an excellent job."

Sofia narrowed her eyes at him, and he did likewise at her. _So that's how it's going to be, hmm?_

She continued, "There will be no need to worry while you are away. The lab will be fine in your absence. However, I strongly encourage you to reconsider your actions."

Grissom scowled. He decided to drop the evasive front, as it clearly wasn't going to work with her.

"Explain," he said. "Since we're being so honest with each other."

"'_If you love something, set it free. If it comes back, it is yours. If it doesn't, it never was_.' I used to tell myself this little poem when I was younger, when I had a crush on a guy who didn't seem to be interested. It made it easier to deal with the rejection. Because, as much as I wanted to be with him… if I loved him, I had to let him go. And let him choose."

She frowned. "You gave her no choice; she had to free herself. You didn't let her go. You didn't make her yours, either. And really, she was never yours to begin with. But you toyed with her and her emotions, keeping her here. 'Why' seems to be biggest unanswered question in this lab, as a matter of fact."

She smiled at the thought, and Grissom wondered what else was being said about him behind his back.

She continued, her voice turning solemn. "Now, I don't know why she finally decided to leave, but at least she wised up. Staying here was a continued exercise in futility for her. Don't delude yourself, either. Your lack of action, in either direction, forced her to go."

Grissom's eyes were steel. Sofia was painfully correct, but this was personal, and she wasn't a close friend like Brass or Catherine. His tone was sharp. "Your point?"

"As much as you may want to run to her, and say or do whatever it is that you are planning, she may not want to listen. And honestly, I don't blame her."

"So you feel it would be an exercise in futility," he stated, somewhat mollified.

"If it were me, and I had made up my mind to move on, I would move on. Close the doors behind me, and open new ones up ahead. Sara's closed the door on her life here, and opened a new one elsewhere. You are behind her closed door. For me, no matter what was behind that door, I wouldn't want it anymore. I closed it, and opened another, for a reason."

Grissom considered this, and in a way, it made sense. There were things, and people, from his past that were better left there. He liked his skeletons locked tightly inside their closet, where they belonged.

Sofia seemed irritated at his lack of a response. "Is there anything else you need to discuss with me?"

Grissom sighed. "No, and I do appreciate your honesty. I hope that you won't…"

She held up her hand again. "I won't blab your personal life across this lab. You know, you nightshift guys really need to get out more. You live so vicariously through each other, it's almost painful to watch." She chuckled to herself, and Grissom felt again, and not for the first time, that Sofia shared a mentality that wasn't theirs. She belonged back on the day shift. Her family was there, not here.

"But seriously," she said as she stood in the doorway, "you should think long and hard before you go traipsing off to rescue her. She may not want to be rescued."

oooooooooooooooooooooo

Despite Sofia's words of warning, Grissom still continued with his plan. Since he had her approval to appoint her as temporary nightshift supervisor, he filled out the required paperwork, and was waiting for the right moment to approach Ecklie.

Ecklie couldn't really say no without causing a stir with his superiors, namely Atwater, and Grissom knew he had an advantage over the man.

The perfect opportunity presented itself when a high-profile congressman had his very expensive Jaguar stolen, and the nightshift had recovered the vehicle and captured the thief. It wasn't like it was a difficult case, the man's stepson had gone joyriding with the thing, and somehow damaged it. It had been abandoned in a low-end long-term parking lot near McCarren.

Ecklie was just returning from a press conference, clearly pleased he could take the credit for the find.

"Conrad. I need for you to sign these forms." Grissom followed him to his office, and handed them to him as Ecklie sat down.

"What are these? More requests for supplies?"

"No. Just standard forms to handle my search for a replacement. I'll need to be away from the lab for a couple of weeks, but Sofia has agreed to run the shift while I'm gone."

Ecklie stopped his signature halfway, and focused hooded eyes on Grissom's face. Grissom was calm despite the glare from his adversary. "You can't just leave for two weeks, Gil."

"I'm afraid it's necessary. I need to recruit a replacement, and the department can't afford to fly candidates from all over the country to Vegas, let alone shack them up in a hotel, rent them a car, and feed them. I am doing this on my own time; I have plenty of paid leave on the books." Grissom paused for dramatic effect. "Like I said before, the lab shouldn't suffer because of my mistakes."

Ecklie was too high on himself to bat more than a couple eyelashes at Grissom's statements. Most likely, he heard "afford", "my own" and "my mistakes", and was again feeling superior.

"This is truly above and beyond for you. Atwater will be impressed. He had siphoned off a portion of this quarter's budget to support recruitment." Ecklie smiled slightly as he continued to sign the forms. Grissom was sure Ecklie was going to take credit for his "cost-saving" measure. It was unfortunate that Ecklie didn't realize he was signing an expense voucher permitting Grissom with unrestrained use of his corporate card. Nor was Ecklie aware that a first-class airline ticket to Bradley International was charged to that card.

Grissom's smile was sincere as Ecklie handed the forms back to him, for forwarding to accounting. "Thank you, Ecklie. I will be in contact with Sofia periodically, and she knows how to reach me if it is an emergency. I am quite confident that she'll do fine in my absence. She assured me she would do her best."

Ecklie's tone was off as he replied abruptly to Grissom's praise of his old teammate. "She'll do fine. She's an expert on controlling others."

Grissom raised an eyebrow at that unexpected statement. _What was that supposed to mean?_

"Still," Ecklie stated, returning to his normal slime-coated demeanor, "I'm sure all will be well. Good luck on your search."

"Thank you, Conrad."

As Grissom was almost through the doorway, elated at his good fortune, Ecklie called to him. "Oh… Gil… there is one more thing. I do hope you don't have plans to bring back Sara Sidle. I know she's on the east coast now, and I did read in your itinerary that you were headed that way." He paused before muttering, "And I know about the wagers surrounding your 'relationship'."

"Conrad, I have no intention of recruiting Sara as her own replacement."

"That's good, Gil, because if you step one foot into this lab with Sara Sidle at your side, you're fired. Are we clear?"

Grissom's temper soared, and he couldn't hold back the hostility in his voice.

"Crystal."

"Good. Have a nice trip."

oooooooooooooooooooooo

Two days before he was scheduled to leave, he had an unexpected visit from all of his old team, plus Brass. They actually cornered him at assignments.

Catherine, of course, was their spokesperson. "We all wanted to let you know that no matter what happens, we're still be here for you. You've been there for all of us, more than once. We are just returning the favor." Everyone nodded in agreement, with big, goofy smiles on their faces.

Grissom thought now would be a perfect time to impersonate a cockroach. Or maybe a turtle. Or a snail.

"We figured you might need some help, so first, here's a card from all of us to Sara. Make sure she reads it."

"Don't open it," Greg blurted. "It's for her."

Catherine laughed, while Nick, Warrick and Brass simultaneously rolled their eyes in annoyance.

"Second, you need to get a clue. So here's your new bible. Read it. Learn it. Love it."

She handed him a large paperback. He almost choked when he read the title. _"Dating For Dummies"._

Nick started coughing lightly, most likely to hide his sniggering.

"Wow. Gee. Thanks." Grissom didn't hide the embarrassed sarcasm in his voice.

"Third," Catherine continued, unperturbed, "We took the liberty of chipping in to get you something that might push the odds into your favor."

She handed him an envelope, and he opened in cautiously. Inside he found two pieces of paper. The confusion on his face was apparent as he unfolded them cautiously. One was a confirmation of a tuxedo rental. The other was a confirmation of dinner reservations at "The Olde Lyme Inn".

"It's all paid for," Catherine said. "All you have to do is tell them when you'll pick the tuxedo up, and just call the restaurant to schedule the dinner. Order whatever you want, it's all set up to charge to my account. Enjoy yourselves. And if it goes well… well… it's an inn." She gave him a bawdy smirk, and Grissom wished frantically for the magical ability to disappear. But apparently, everyone could still see him, and the embarrassed look on his face.

"Wine and dine her, Gil," Brass said with a smile. "Women can't resist a man in a tux."

"That's the truth," Catherine replied. "You looked good at Ecklie's dinner. That is until you left me holding the napkin while you sauntered off to a crime scene." She shot him a condescending look, and he couldn't help but grin back at her. He got her good that night.

"And I hope you haven't put on any pounds since then," Catherine said, eyeing him intently, "since I used the same measurements that you had then to place the order."

"No," he said a little hesitantly. "I don't think so."

Suddenly the weight of what they'd done, and what he was doing, hit him. Grissom didn't know what to say. He felt strangely sad and happy at the same time. He couldn't define what it was. And everyone was still looking at him with Cheshire Cat grins, and he was at a loss.

"I… I really don't know what to say." Grissom looked down at his shoes, ashamed that he couldn't thank his friends properly.

"We all wish you well," Catherine said. "And we're ready for the melodrama to end. We're okay with whatever you decide to do."

Grissom raised his head in mild surprise.

"It's okay, Grissom," Nick said lightly. "We're all okay with it. So go do what you've gotta do. Go get her."

Grissom focused on the younger man, quite aware of his strong loyalty to Sara. The look in Nick's eyes didn't deny it, and Grissom was almost taken aback by the intensity he found there.

"Do it," Nick said. "Bring her home."

oooooooooooooooooooooo

His last night at the lab was relatively uneventful. He had briefed Sofia on all of the open cases, and she had been mostly running the show for a week now. Grissom had to admit she was very good at doing his job. Seeing her in a supervisory role – it was obvious that was where she belonged. And she relished in it, the same way Catherine relished in high profile cases. The similarities were profound. And mildly disturbing.

Still, that was all irrelevant. He was leaving. Part of him was confident this was the right thing to do, and his heart soared with the feeling. The other part of him was screaming in pure, unadulterated terror. He was trying very hard to ignore that part.

"So, you have everything you need?" he asked Sofia. She looked quite comfortable, sitting in his chair, filling out his paperwork.

"Yes," she said, barely looking up. "Everything will be fine."

"Well, goodbye then. You know how to reach me."

"Yes," she replied. "I do. Just relax and go fetch your girl." She looked up with a smile and a twinkle of affectionate humor in her eyes.

He smiled back at her. "Should I take that as an approval?"

"Consider it a gesture of goodwill."

Grissom left the lab with a light heart. This was the right thing to do. And he was doing it.

Greg stopped him as he was getting into his car.

"Grissom! Wait a sec!"

"Yes, Greg?" Grissom said, slightly annoyed. He should have known Greg would have something to say before he left.

"I just wanted to wish you well. I hope it works out, for both of you."

"Well, thanks Greg."

"And…" Greg said simply, "if I find out you hurt her yet again on this little adventure of yours, well… you'd better watch your back when you return."

Grissom was incensed at Greg's audacity. "That sounded like a threat, Greg. It isn't a good career move to threaten your supervisor."

"It wasn't a threat, _boss_. It was a statement. Interpret it any way you like."

Grissom watched Greg walk quietly away, and wondered when he went from a scrawny clown of a lab rat, to a confident and serious young man. Something about his behavior made Grissom a little nervous. This trip was about more than just him. It was about Sara, and Sara's influence on this lab. In not so many words, Nick had said almost the same thing. And Brass had made his feelings clear as well when she first left.

There probably was an old western about just this topic. If the hero didn't rescue the errant maiden from unknown peril, and bring her back home, Daddy and her two older brothers would pound the hero into a bloody pulp.

Grissom drove home, wondering how his own version of the western would end. Would he ride off into the sunset, or lie beaten and defeated in the desert, with buzzards picking at his remains…

oooooooooooooooooooooo

Two nights later, when Grissom was most likely flying over a rural portion of Indiana, his office telephone rang.

Sofia picked it up on the third ring.

"Gil Grissom's office, Sofia Curtis speaking."

"Oh?" the voice on the line asked, surprise and annoyance clearly evident through the line. "Is Gil Grissom available?"

"No, I'm sorry. He's out of the office for the next two weeks. Is there something I can help you with?"

"Sofia, you'll have to. This is Sara Sidle. I'm calling about a case I have here… I, uh… I work for the State of Connecticut now."

"Oh?" Sofia said, trying to sound sincere and surprised at the same time.

Sara continued, "Do remember the Cynthia Walker case? The dancer that was found posed like she was praying?"

Sofia paused for a moment, scanning her memory. "Yes… I do. Tangiers hotel bathroom. Unsolved."

"Two more women have had something very similar happen to them out here. I didn't know about the first, and the second just happened last night. Both women were cleaned spotless with a bleach-based solution." Sara paused before continuing. "I'm calling because I'm almost positive that this is out of our jurisdiction. This isn't my case anymore. I think it's yours."

"Actually," Sofia corrected her, "it belongs to both labs. Lucky you, you'll get to work with Grissom again. He's on a plane headed your way right now."

_ continued next chapter -> _


	7. part1chap6

_... part 1, chapter 6 ... _

Gil stared out the airplane window, scrutinizing the twinkling lights miles below. He wondered where they were. And why, with all the amazing technology that had come about in the last thirty years, it still took over 8 hours to fly across the country.

At least he was in first class, and not in coach with screaming children and wheezing, hacking elderly. He reviewed the last 24 hours again in his mind, confirming again that yes, he had packed everything he needed, and yes, everything was taken care of back at home.

Gil's primary concern was his new "pet", the plant. Doc Robbins was taking care of his spider, and his cockroaches. But the plant needed sun, and there wasn't any sunlight in a morgue. So, with a small swallow of his pride, he'd brought the plant into work two weeks ago, and now Sofia was caring for it in its new home in his office. Catherine had given him a hairy eyeball when she'd seen it, but she hadn't said a word.

He'd also made sure he packed a few other items he might need. Always best to be prepared.

His nerves were behaving themselves, and he felt relatively calm as the ground passed below him. Only his team knew the real reason why he was flying out to the east coast, and even then – he hadn't told them. But, they knew. Hence the small little "farewell" and their gifts. Which was really above and beyond, even for them.

Gil sighed quietly to himself, realizing again that for most of them, this really wasn't about him. It was about him _and_ Sara. Catherine, he knew, cared for him. She wanted him happy. And Warrick was probably in his corner as well. But as for the rest, he suspected that their loyalties lay more with Sara than him. They missed her, and wanted her back. _People are selfish. It's all about personal agendas._

Then again, he himself was guilty of this. He wanted Sara back. His plan developed a few nights after Warrick had spoken with him. The gauntlet, although subtle, had been thrown, and Gil made it his mission to determine the identity of Warrick's secret crush.

oooooooooooooooooooooo

Grissom was watching the employees in the lab, searching for any clues of an affinity for Warrick. Warrick himself was as stoic as usual; so watching him was unnecessary, and useless. Plus, Grissom knew Warrick would be extra cautious, now that he'd shared half of his secret with him.

In his people-watching, Grissom realized he and Warrick were not alone. And it astounded him. Hodges was clearly smitten with their new lab tech, Mia. Greg moped around like a lost puppy, still missing Sara. Jacqui seemed to be eyeing Archie, although Grissom could have sworn she was married. And Bobbie from ballistics seemed to be chasing a young blonde that Grissom didn't know. Ecklie spent a lot of time watching Catherine, much to Grissom's dismay. Sofia's eyes would follow Ecklie when she thought no one was looking. She seemed sad, most likely she felt betrayed. Her eyes also tended to follow him around, moderately confirming his own suspicion about her feelings towards him. But then again, her eyes followed Nick, too. And Warrick. Grissom had a tough time reading her. Either she was lusting after them all, or she was studying them just like he was.

Catherine flirted with everyone, including Ecklie. Flaunting her sexuality was just like breathing for her. Watching her made Grissom smile in a way. Catherine had spunk. Unlike the secretary Judy, who was always quiet and seemed shy. But she would giggle nervously if Nick joked with her. A woman from the day shift was obviously involved with a much younger man, also from day shift. Grissom had even caught them kissing in the parking lot before their shift.

He gave up after two nights, the whole study making his head spin. It left him more confused than ever about Warrick's lady, and office romance in general. Was _he_ this obvious? Was Sara? He'd spent no more than a few hours just watching others interact, and their emotions were as clear as day to him.

It was no wonder that his team was frustrated with him. If he had to watch this type of behavior, day in and day out, with no resolution, it would drive him nuts. Memories of his words to that Dr. Lurie made him cringe in embarrassment and dismay. How many people had heard that? Brass, for one. Who else? It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out whom he meant. More cringing at that thought.

The dynamics made sense though. They all spent the majority of their waking hours with each other. Having a life outside of work was difficult, if not impossible. Didn't Catherine complain about this, _all the time_? Their job demanded much of them. Grissom remembered Charlie Rourdan again, and how he'd originally assumed he and Sara were an item. It was human nature to develop relationships with your co-workers. And the need for male/female relationships to develop was almost instinctive. Reproduction. The feelings could be controlled, but they couldn't be denied.

Grissom had mulled over this for days, even reading up on inter-office relationships over the Internet. It seemed they were frowned upon by management, but easily accepted if the couple were to marry, or was already married. Interesting.

The more Grissom reviewed his past with Sara, the more ashamed he became. She'd already admitted, in her amazingly blunt way, that she came here for him. And for her, a relationship wasn't a problem. And it seemed for most, it wasn't a problem either. After all she'd done for him, and how he'd left her after that seminar, it was no wonder she had assumed more when he'd invited her here.

oooooooooooooooooooooo

Sara had brushed past him when she heard the detective's voice in his hotel doorway. "Mac? Is that you?"

"Sara? What are you doing here?" The detective looked extremely suspicious, like Sara was hanging around with a wanton criminal.

"Mac, this is Dr. Gil Grissom from the Las Vegas _Crime Lab_. He's here at the seminar, as a guest lecturer. This week is the Forensics Conference, remember? And Dr. Grissom used to work with Charlie back in L.A. He is the _last _person who would commit a crime, okay?"

"We need to bring him downtown."

"Mac, that isn't necessary. The press will be all over this if he's hauled out of here. Can't we keep this quiet? Dr. Grissom was just about to file a claim that his forensics kit, complete with a _gun_, was missing from his hotel room."

"Is this true, Dr. Grissom?" Mac said to him.

"Yes, actually, it is. I had brought Miss Sidle up here to show her my kit, and when I went to get it from the closet, it was gone."

"Uh, yeah. Okay." Mac said with 'yeah-right' look on his face.

"Mac," Sara said sternly. "Don't go there. It isn't like that. Just like that Bardstow lady, what was her name? Kitty?"

Mac quailed slightly, and Grissom was taken aback at Sara's shrewdness.

"Why don't you question him here, in his hotel room? Since he needs to file his claim about his kit, you can take care of that as well. Save him a trip downtown."

"Or, maybe we can take him downtown to file his report, and question him there," one of the cops said harshly, scowling at Sara.

"Or," Sara scowled back, "we can call Charlie, and after he flips out, he can file a complaint against you for slander against Dr. Grissom's good name. Should I call him now?"

Sara walked over to the hotel phone, and grabbed the receiver. "Well, should I?"

"No. I suppose that won't be necessary," the officer replied, not quite subdued. Grissom suspected Sara would pay for this later. He didn't know her exact position, but no CSI had this kind of clout back in Vegas. He still couldn't believe any of this was happening.

"Let's have a seat, shall we?" The detective gestured to him, and Grissom sat down on his bed, while the detective took the larger chair, and the angry officer took the desk chair. The other officer lingered uncomfortably.

Sara, on the other hand, was leaving. "I am going to call Charlie _anyways_, Griss," she said, shooting a dark look at her new officer friend. "He and I will make sure that nothing negative comes of this. If you need anything, my room number is 709 and his is 804. Call one of us when you're done here, okay?"

Grissom nodded at her, still overwhelmed by the whole ordeal. He turned to the detective… Sara had called him "Mac"… and tried to look polite and professional.

After a half hour of questioning, and giving a detailed explanation of his kit, the detective and his two henchmen left his hotel room.

"I'm sure you know the protocol, but we need to remind you that you are still considered a suspect in this investigation," Mac said pointedly.

"In other words," sneered the vocal cop, "don't leave town until we tell you to."

Grissom stared back, his eyes hard. "I know the protocol. Please contact me when you have more information on my forensics kit."

After they had left, Gil sat down on his bed and tried to come to terms with what had happened. His kit was missing, and his gun, which was in said kit, was found at a crime scene. Most likely used to murder a convenience store attendant. But, like he'd told the detective and his cronies, there were no bullets in his kit or his gun.

It looked like he was going to be staying in San Francisco a little while longer, now. Lovely. Well, at least he could spend some more time with Charlie and Sara Sidle.

And Sara was just full of surprises, wasn't she? And emotions. Gil wasn't sure what he felt towards her, it was definitely different for him. He was physically attracted to her, but that was to be expected. She was attractive. She also intrigued the intellectual in him; she was very intelligent and quick to wit. Her love of knowledge seemed to parallel his own. Yet a part of him was apprehensive; Sara was a handful. Something about that was also appealing. The chaos, the uncertainty. The whole package together was somehow desirable, in a way that he couldn't quite comprehend.

He picked up the phone, and called Jim Brass back in Vegas. His boss would need to be brought up to speed on what had happened. Jim had connections as well; perhaps he could help move this along smoothly.

After getting an earful from Brass, he called Charlie. He wasn't comfortable calling Sara. Charlie picked up on the second ring.

"Gil!" Charlie exclaimed into the phone, "What have you gotten yourself into?"

"A whole load of shit, it seems."

"I talked with Sara, and with Joe Mackenzie, the detective you met. Sara and I can't work this because of our attachment to you, but I've got guys back at the lab running ballistics on the bullet and your gun. And we're running prints from the store as well. We should have something tomorrow."

"That's… that's great, Charlie. Thanks."

"Don't thank me yet – you'll need to change rooms. I've got a team coming over to dust your room, top to bottom. If your case was stolen, maybe the perp left some prints we can lift. I'm sure the hotel will be okay with you switching rooms, but you most likely will be here until Monday. Will your lab pick up the cost of staying at the hotel, or do you want to stay with me at my place?"

"My lab won't pick up the cost, Charlie. I already asked. Without the discount for the seminar, this place is way over per diem. I was planning on finding a cheap motel."

A voice in the background murmured something.

"You don't have to do that…" Charlie said. "You barely know him."

More murmuring, stern-sounding murmuring. "Yeah, I know. But I can clean it, right?" That brought on a wry laugh in the background.

"All right. Gil, Sara's volunteered her spare bedroom for the weekend, based solely on the fact that my place is a sty, and she knows it. She has a two-bedroom condo near the bay. It's nice. "

Anxious murmuring now. "Oh, and she says it is purely professional. She didn't want you to think that she wanted to… OUCH! Jesus, Sara… that hurt! Okay, okay. Professional she says. And believe me, if you try anything, she'll deck you like she just did me. It isn't pretty!"

"She doesn't have to do that, Charlie. That's really above and beyond. I can get a room at a motel. It'll be okay." The thought of spending a weekend in someone else's home, let alone Sara Sidle's home, was more than he could handle right now. He needed his privacy.

"He says he's gonna get a motel, Sara. Says he doesn't want to impose, that sort of thing." Murmuring again. "Oh, you're right. Let's play it by ear, huh? He's fine for tonight." Charlie then spoke back into the phone to Gil. "Sara says there is a possibility you won't find anything, there's a game this weekend at the university. Homecoming or something. However, you can give it a try, and if you can't find anything, you can stay with her or me."

"I'll keep you both informed – I'm going down to the front desk to switch rooms. Talk to you later."

"Let me know tomorrow what your new room number is. Hang in there, Gil."

"Thanks, Charlie."

Grissom packed up his belongings and toted them down to the front desk. After 20 minutes of waiting, he found himself in a room on the third floor. He picked up the Yellow Pages, and the phone, and spent the next hour calling as many motels within a ten mile radius as he could. Sara Sidle's prediction was correct, and there was no room at the inn.

Twenty-four hours later, and afflicted with a permanent case of his heart problem, Grissom found himself and his luggage positioned at the third front porch in a set of row homes facing the bay. He raised his hand to knock on the bright red front door, when it suddenly burst open and a tank top-and-shorts clad Sara Sidle opened the door with a grin.

"C'mon in, roomie!"

_Oh shit… God have mercy…_

oooooooooooooooooooooo

Grissom was startled out of his daydream by the copilot's crackling voice. They were landing at Bradley soon. He settled back in his seat, content to watch the landing. A flutter of anticipation ran through him. He was almost here. He had her address, and tomorrow afternoon, he'd show up at her door. With flowers. Yes, flowers. Roses. Red ones. _Wait… what if she doesn't like roses?_

No, he wasn't going to panic. He'd go with the flow, follow his heart. He'd be romantic and would sweep her off her feet. She'd be receptive and say she missed him as much as he missed her. _Yeah, so I'm dreaming. Sue me._

They landed without incident, and he retrieved his luggage and his rental car. It was 11:15 p.m., and apparently the last flight for quite some time. Around him, people were dragging. But for him, the day was just beginning.

As he left the rental car lot, he finally reached down to turn on his cell phone. A beep told him he had a voicemail message. He looked down, and the lab came up as a missed call. Twice.

_Oh shit. Something's happened._ Sofia wouldn't have called unless it was extremely important. He dialed his voicemail, and sure enough – Sofia had called, and left a message that he call her immediately.

He dialed his office phone, and luckily, Sofia picked up. "Sofia? What happened? Is everyone okay?" His voice was filled with panic, his mind racing.

"First, relax. Everyone is fine, and everything here is fine. I want you to sit down, though."

"Sofia, what is this?"

"You need to be sitting down for this, okay? Just sit down."

"I _am_ sitting down. I'm in the rental car. And I'm off to the side of the road, and people are honking at me. So tell me, _what the hell is going on!_"

Sofia took a deep breath before continuing, and it echoed across the line. Grissom's heart started to race. She let out a big sigh. "Grissom, Sara Sidle called."

Grissom's mind went blank. _HUH?_

"Your trip has taken a detour. Remember the Walker woman? Found in the Tangiers, posed? Everything bleached?"

"Yeah…"

"Well, Sara Sidle called from some local casino in southeastern Connecticut. She is on a case there. Two women have been murdered and found within the casino's hotel. The M.O. matches the Walker case. Sara called to hand off the case to us."

"It belongs to both labs," Grissom replied quietly.

"Yes, I know. I told her that as well, and that you were heading out her way."

"Did… did you tell her why?"

"No, Grissom. I didn't. I did make arrangements for you, though. You've got a room at the casino's hotel. The Mohegan Sun. The owners of the casino want to keep this quiet, and they don't want the press to know you're there. So you're going to have to play this as low-key as possible. No reporters."

Sofia paused, and he heard her ruffling through some papers.

"You're point of contact is a Jon Northwind. He's apparently the detective on the case. He's going to meet you tomorrow by the front desk of the hotel. His exact words were 'by the fountain'. So look for a fountain. I've taken the liberty of shipping your kit there by FedEx – you should have it tomorrow afternoon. Is there anything else you need?"

Wow, she was efficient at this. "No, thank you for this Sofia. Does anyone else at the lab know that we've been called to this?"

"Ecklie knows…. I had to tell him." She sounded remorseful, but then again, he could never tell with her.

"I understand. Stay by a phone; I may need the help of the lab with this one. I don't know the resources they have out here."

"I know," she said quietly. "And for what it's worth, things happen for a reason."

"Uh… what do you mean?"

"You're going to be working this with her. A case. Maybe you can use that to your advantage."

Grissom didn't respond to that. He merely replied, "Thanks again, Sofia. I've gotta go."

He flipped his phone closed, and his head was spinning. His not-so-well-thought-out plan had just been squashed by the cold, cruel hand of fate. He was on a case now, and tomorrow he'd be working. Side by side with Sara and her new team. He'd meet her new boss; most likely work with him as well. And he'd have to be extremely professional. _What a disaster._

Grissom flipped open the phone, and called Catherine. He needed help.

oooooooooooooooooooooo

It took a little more than an hour before Grissom arrived at the Mohegan Sun casino. It looked a little out of place, like it belonged back home, in Vegas, not the backwoods of Connecticut.

After parking, he found his way to the hotel lobby. Luckily for him, he had parked in the garage closest to the hotel. He was grateful for the casino's road signs.

He approached the clerk behind the desk and stated his name. From nowhere, a manager type appeared, complete with double-breasted suit.

"Come with me, sir," he crooned.

Grissom followed the manager into a back office. The manager gestured for him to sit. He obliged, and was hoping this wouldn't take too long. It had been a long drive, and nature was calling Gil Grissom's name. Loudly.

"We want to thank you for coming here so quickly. As I'm sure you're aware, we want to keep this whole business quiet. If the press were to find out, well, I'm sure you've been in that situation before."

_Politics._ "Yes," Grissom replied, "I have. I'm as eager as you to keep this as low-key as possible."

"Excellent, excellent," the manager oozed. "We've arranged for you to have one of the comp rooms for your stay. However, I'm afraid that food and beverages are your own expense. I apologize for this, but it is our policy."

"It isn't a problem. My lab will cover that expense, and we appreciate your generosity of the room."

"Good, good," the man sighed, visibly relieved. "I'll have one of our bellhops show you to your room. If you need anything during your stay here, just call the front desk. Our staff has been instructed to handle your requests as an utmost priority."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome, you're very welcome. We want your stay to be comfortable."

Grissom wondered if the man realized he repeated half of what he said. But Redundancy Manager was standing now, clearly ending this little discussion. He followed the manager back to the lobby, where the manager made a slight gesture, and a bellhop magically appeared.

"Take this man to the 15th floor comp. Sir, here are your keys." And Grissom was handed two credit card-like cards – digital hotel keys. He nodded in thanks to the manager, and followed the bellhop to the elevator. When they arrived at his room, he noticed the number – 1535. He committed it to memory, since the cards had no markings on them.

The bellhop opened the door, and Grissom followed him inside the room. It was large, and clean, but nothing amazing. He'd seen more impressive rooms in Vegas. However, since it was free, it was more than adequate. He turned around, but the bellhop had disappeared before Grissom could even think about tipping him. Well, that was a positive.

He paid a visit to Mother Nature, and did a quick unpacking of his clothes. His kit, along with the spare and his work clothes – courtesy of Catherine, were due tomorrow afternoon. There wasn't much he could do, and he was still wide-awake. It was almost 1 a.m. He could order room service, but he'd been on enough business trips to know that room service food was never as good as the food at the restaurants.

So after a quick shower and a clean set of clothes, he grabbed his wallet and his "key" and rode the elevator downstairs. He had to admit; the "fountain" in center of the lobby looked more like a pool than a fountain. There were also numerous padded chairs scattered about, so at least he'd have a place to sit while waiting to meet Detective Northwind tomorrow afternoon.

He left the lobby and walked towards what he thought was the casino. What he found was a two story waterfall cascading down the side of the fake mountain wall in front of him. There wasn't a slot machine in sight; however, he could hear them off in the distance. Interesting. It wasn't extremely crowded, but there was a steady stream of people drifting about below him. He'd have to explore this casino later on, but his stomach was mildly reminding him that food was a priority right now.

Conveniently off to his left was a restaurant, Fidelia's, which appeared open. It was a little more crowded than Grissom expected, but hell, at least they were open. Maybe he could get a beer and a bite to eat before heading back to his room. He could also attempt to listen in for any local gossip from the other patrons.

As he walked inside towards the hostess' counter, his eyes were drawn to the brunette sitting off to his right, near the window. She seemed to be drinking coffee, or maybe it was tea, her face half-hidden by the magazine she was reading. He stopped dead in his tracks as he recognized the cover.

It could be no other. Grissom's heart leapt into his throat. There, six feet in front of him, sipping lightly from her cup, intent on whatever forensics article had caught her fancy, was Sara Sidle.

_... end part 1 ... _

_Continued Part 2 ->_


	8. part2chap1

**Large Disclaimer:** I do not own or am anyway affiliated with the Mohegan Sun casino, nor the tribe. All scenarios described within are purely fictional, and the odds of them actually occurring within the _real _Mohegan Sun casino and hotel are about one in a zillion. Also, all persons described as related to or employed by the Mohegan Sun are completely fictitious and made up from combinations of my imagination and people I see on the evening news when I write. That goes for other persons described in this fic as well. They are all imaginary.

I have also taken some liberties with describing the interiors of the casino; as such things are not visible to the public. In fact, any time I started poking around, I found either locked doors or hovering security, and to be honest, it creeped me out b/c I couldn't see the hidden cameras, so I don't know where those security folks came from. They just _appeared. _Creepy.

**Beta Props:** Many extreme thanks go out to Cybrokat, and to Marlou for Chapters 1, 2, and 3 of this part. I am completely honored to have such excellent betas. It is a lot for me to ask for beta of this, and I greatly appreciate their help. And to Jennie, my BFF who has never seen an episode of CSI in her life – yet she reads and provides solid concrit based solely on the storyline.

**A/N:** First, millions of thanks to all those who left reviews and those who recommended me on YTDAW for Part 1 of this. You have no idea how much your kind words mean to me. And secondly, to make this short and to the point – I apologize for the delay and I promise that by the end of this story, it will be worth it. Some things need a solid foundation, and Part 2 is the majority of the foundation for this fic. Any and all mistakes are mine, and I do apologize for them in advance. This is still a melodrama, although there is some angst growing. And there are some little drabs of what I like to call 'pre-smut'.

* * *

… _part 2, chapter 1 …_

"Sir? Excuse me? Sir?"

A young woman's voice brought Grissom to his senses. _Restaurant. Dinner. Food. _He forced his attention away from the oblivious Sara, and to the hostess standing in front of him. "I'm sorry," he said quietly, "what?"

"I need to seat you, sir. There is a line forming." She gestured behind him, and Grissom turned to see an older couple standing behind him, the woman glaring daggers at him in her impatience. The hostess continued, "Is there somewhere specific you'd like to sit?" She turned her head in Sara's direction. Grissom's gaze followed, as did the dual pair of eyes behind him.

Sara must have felt the four sets upon her; she peered over her magazine and her dark eyes widened. She gently put down her cup and her magazine, her face void of any emotion as she stared blankly at them.

"Follow me, sir," the hostess directly firmly, and Grissom followed as she led him to the table across the aisle from Sara. He tried to prepare himself for this meeting. _I can do this. I have to do this sometime. I can talk to her. How bad could it be?_ The hostess handed him a small menu as she departed. "Enjoy your meal, sir."

Grissom didn't sit at his table. Instead, he turned to face Sara. Her eyes were betraying the nonchalance of her face; seeing him again was affecting her.

"Hello, Sara."

"Grissom."

Something about the way she said his name conveyed a bevy of meaning. Insecurity. Frustration. And that undercurrent of feeling that Grissom always heard in her voice; that tone that was reserved for him and him alone. Hearing it again, even a hint of it, was reassuring.

"Mind if I join you? I just arrived."

A flicker of emotion crossed her face for a moment, only to be replaced by stoic indifference.

"If you'd like. I'm almost off lunch, so I can't stay and chat."

Oops, a twinge of venom there.

"Thank you." He sat across from her, and studied the small menu. "So, what's good here?"

"I'm not sure. I only come here for the coffee. It's strong, like Greg's."

Grissom heard the melancholy note in her voice. She must miss her friend. He again wondered what had brought her to this point. She must have her reasons. But now wasn't the time for that.

A waitress stepped up to them, smiling curiously at Sara before meeting Grissom with the typical helpful service gaze. "Hello, my name is Linda. May I take your order?"

"I'll have the three cheese omelet and a coffee, please," he said as he handed Linda the menu. His craving for a sirloin burger and a beer would have to wait. Besides, an omelet wouldn't be so bad, and it wouldn't offend Sara.

"Do you want anything?" he asked Sara. "Ecklie's buying," he said with a smile.

"No, no thanks. I ate a salad earlier." She nodded slightly to the waitress, who departed quickly.

Grissom subconsciously raised an eyebrow at that; knowing full well Sara's aversion to taking time to eat while working. Sara noticed, and shot him a scowl.

"I did. See?" And she reached down and pulled out a Tupperware container that clearly held the lingering remains of a salad. "I had some crackers too. It's way too expensive to eat here every night."

Grissom could appreciate that. He spent quite a bit of money on food back home because he didn't feel like taking the time to prepare something ahead of time. He could afford it, but he made a bit more than Sara did. He wondered if she'd gotten a raise in pay when she came here.

They sat quietly for a moment, the awkwardness growing between them. This was exactly what Grissom wanted to avoid. He'd made a deal with himself that he was going to break out from the stalemates between them. _But… I don't know what to say…_

"So… how are you?" he asked. That was an innocuous question.

"I'm fine," she stated simply. She was fidgeting with her magazine, folding and unfolding the corner of the back cover.

"That's good."

They sat again in silence until the waitress brought his coffee. He stirred in two creams and let it sit a bit to cool. Sara sipped at her own coffee, and stared at her magazine.

"Things are good back home, too," Grissom murmured. "Same old, same old, you know."

Sara shifted a little at that remark, biting her lower lip slightly. He'd said something wrong. Mild panic._ Recover!_

"Hodges acted out on his crush on Mia. He brought in chocolates for her, and she almost dumped the whole box over his head. Claimed she was allergic and couldn't stand the smell because she loved it as a child, but couldn't have it."

Hodges stories were funny. He was such an arrogant kiss-ass, and seeing him so smitten in his pathetic way was a running joke in the lab. Grissom knew Greg would tell her about Hodges all the time, making her laugh. He watched as Sara seemed to smile slightly to herself, but in an instant, it was gone. Replaced once more by her wall of indifference.

He sipped his coffee, trying to be nonchalant. Tough to do when he couldn't even remember the last time he and Sara had sat at a table together, just the two of them. The first time, yes… but not the last. And she was obviously sensitive to him mentioning the lab. This didn't leave him much to discuss with her. The silence continued, for a good five minutes or more, until the waitress finally delivered his meal. Sara took its arrival as a sign to leave, and placed her magazine into her bag at her feet.

"My lunch hour is over. I guess I'll see you tomorrow night, after your briefing with Jon." Sara delivered this statement with a tinge of inevitability, like she was discussing a visit to the dentist, for a root canal. She picked up her bag and slung it over her shoulder.

"Uh… see you tomorrow," Grissom said politely. Sara began to walk away, and Grissom called out her name hesitantly. She stopped and sighed in defeated annoyance as she looked over her shoulder at him.

"It's good to see you again," he said.

Her face softened as a crack developed in her emotional defenses. She stared at him, fighting the tears threatening to overflow. "I wish I could say the same," she said quietly. Grissom said nothing as she left the restaurant and disappeared into the crowd.

oooooooooooooooooooooo

Gil had a rough night after that. After forcing down his omelet and the remainder of his coffee, he'd gone back to his room. Sara didn't want him here. Somehow he hadn't expected this, although he really should have. She'd left, right? And had specifically left things associated with _him_ behind.

He didn't sleep well. After he finally did drift off, his dreams were haunted by visions of doors. Corridors of doors, each one closing in his face as he approached. Most had Sara behind them, but some had Ecklie or Atwater scowling at him from behind a desk as the door slammed. One particular door had Brass, Nick and Greg, completely garbed in western wear, pointing double-barreled shotguns at him. Gil had slammed that one himself. The Sara doppelgangers ranged from Sara in her work jumpsuit, to Sara in a skimpy leather outfit like nothing he'd ever seen. The only consistency was her scowl, the same one he'd seen on her face tonight.

He woke harshly, the loud, shrill ring of his room's telephone jerking him out of his sleep.

"Dr. Grissom?" A man's voice was on the other end of the line. "Did I wake you?"

"Nuh… no… itzokay. This is Dr. Grissom."

"This is Jon Northwind. I'm one of the officers working the rape cases. I was hoping to meet with you at 4 p.m. today. I'd like to bring you up to speed on the situation, and then take you over to our morgue. The forensics lab is there as well. Mike can fill you in on all the technical stuff."

"That's fine. Meet at the fountain downstairs, correct?"

"Yes, that's right. Uhm… how'd you know?"

"You told my assistant in Las Vegas. She passed the message on to me."

"I did?" Jon replied, startled. "Wow. I'm more organized than I thought," he mumbled to himself. Grissom mentally rolled his eyes, realizing that Jon must be as young as, or younger, than Greg Sanders.

"Well, I'll see you at four, Dr. Grissom."

"See you then, Detective Northwind."

Gil rolled over and hung up the phone. He felt like shit. This was not how he'd planned to spend the next two weeks. He sighed. Oh well. He'd have to make the best of it. It was noon now. He could attempt to get some more sleep, or suck it up and face the day.

He chose the latter, and spent the afternoon exploring the casino. It was interesting. The whole theme was very earthy; the fact that a Native American tribe owned the thing attributed to that. He was impressed with how organized and smoothly things seemed to run. The controlled chaos feeling was still prevalent, but not as intense as the casinos in Vegas.

There were actually two casinos, one named Earth, the other, Sky. Between the two was a shopping and dining area. The hotel entrance was at the center of this shopping area, forcing all hotel guests to walk by extravagant shops and restaurants before throwing their money away at the slots or tables. The architects and designers put a lot of thought into this place, and how to make the most out of it.

In addition to the waterfall, there was a large white backlit structure that housed some type of lounge or bar. At noon it wasn't crowded, but it looked semi-upscale to Gil. There was also a small performance stage at the center of the Earth casino, the entranceways guarded by large animatronic wolves atop mountain ledges. Native American artwork, sculptures, and themes were prevalent throughout and in extreme detail.

There was also an "arena" at one end of the shopping area, adjacent to the Earth casino. Based on the posters displayed at its entrance, Gil surmised it was something similar to a concert hall or small stadium.

He found a bus station, and a huge donut shop called Krispy Kreme. He was tempted to indulge, but there were times donuts didn't sit well with him. The smell was delectable, though. Gil could almost feel his blood sugar rise as he walked by.

The thing that startled him the most was the clientele. They were happy to be here, and enjoying themselves. The typical Vegas tourists were most noticeable by their absence. There were also few despondent or desperate gamblers here; most patrons were either senior citizens at the slots or middle-aged folks out for a pleasant afternoon. A different crowd than Vegas, indeed.

He'd finished his self-appointed tour a little early, and sat quietly in the lobby with his kit and the paperwork Sofia had sent. His spare kit and his clothing had not arrived yet, but would be placed in his room when they did. Grissom was reading his own copy of the forensics magazine Sara had been reading the night before, completely engrossed in an article on digital radiography, when a dark-haired young man stood directly in front of him, almost crossing that unspoken line of "personal space".

Grissom peered at him over the top rim of his glasses. The man held a newspaper clipping in his hand, and he glanced at it quickly before addressing Grissom.

"Dr. Grissom?" he asked hesitantly.

Grissom stood, closing his magazine and holding out his hand. "Yes, I'm Dr. Grissom. You must be Detective Northwind."

"Jon, please. Formality makes me uncomfortable. So, have you seen our casino? What do you think?"

Something about the young man's tone set off an alarm in Grissom's head. He studied the man, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. He decided to keep his responses neutral.

"I gave myself a tour earlier this afternoon."

"Is this like the casinos in Las Vegas? I've never been there, but I've heard that they're something like ours, but they're different too. More shows and other entertainment going on all the time. We don't have that here."

Again with the possessive tense. Why call the casino his…? A light bulb clicked on in the back of Grissom's head. If he looked hard, he could see a slight, very slight, resemblance. This man most likely was a member of the Mohegan tribe. If that was the case, his "family" owned this casino. This would also explain why the young man was already a detective, and not a rookie on the police force, as his age would imply.

"Your casino seems to be very well run," Grissom replied simply. "And your guests seem quite happy to be here. It's also as visually impressive as any of the casinos in Vegas."

Jon beamed at his response, clarifying Grissom's suspicions. Indeed, Jon had strong association with the tribe, and was most likely a young tribal member. Grissom would have to tread carefully. He was technically standing outside of United States territory. The land this tribe owned, and the casino situated upon it, was a sovereign nation; complete with its own set of rules and regulations. It was something to keep in mind while he was sleeping at their hotel, eating their food, and working their case.

"Shall we get down to business then? If you'd follow me, there's a place more private where we can talk."

Grissom followed Jon away from the lobby and down a long hallway to an unmarked door. He swiped a credit card key, and the door opened. Inside was a small conference room; the walls decorated with woodsy paintings of Native American scenes. Jon had a seat on one side of the table, and Grissom sat at the other. In the far corner sat a small coffee mess, and another unmarked door. Grissom assumed it led to the non-visible underbelly of the casino, where most of the real work was done.

"All right," Jon said with a hint of authority, "let's bring you up to speed. A week ago Sunday, a young woman was found dead, posed in the bathtub in one of our comp'ed suites. The whole bathroom had been cleaned thoroughly with bleach. We figured she's been there for at least a day, maybe more. You'll have to check with the coroner for her exact TOD. The room was registered in the victim's name, and she'd had it reserved for the whole week prior. And she'd requested no cleaning service. She never checked out, but we didn't think much of it, as she's local, and comes here a lot. We've comp'ed her that room before. She'd still be in there if we didn't have it reserved for another comp that Monday morning."

Jon scanned his paperwork, and stated, "Her name was Maria Sanchez. She lived in a small apartment complex in New London, about 20 minutes from here." Grissom nodded, and Jon continued. "Now, two nights ago, another woman was found. Same scenario, posed, bleach, the whole thing, although this time it wasn't a comp'ed room. This one was registered to a Diana Somers, also living in New London. We spoke with the families of both vics, and it turns out they were friends. The whole second murder seems off. Somers paid for a room here; it wasn't a comp. Our rooms aren't cheap. And why in hell would she stay here anyways, when she lives nearby, and worse, her friend was just murdered here? We're pulling video from two nights ago, and the video from last week is already at the forensics lab."

Grissom interrupted for a moment, "How many forensic analysts are working this case?"

"Three, now that you're here. Although the third is part-time, I think. In case it isn't obvious already, this isn't a large city like Las Vegas. Our local jurisdiction isn't really equipped to handle full-scale forensics operations. The tribe is willing to put whatever funds are necessary into this, but Connecticut state legislation still applies."

"What does that mean?" Grissom asked, confused.

"It means that all the money in the world can't bring on the people we need. The legislation and our arrangement with the state will not allow the hiring of consultants; we have to use the resources and personnel the state provides. And there just aren't enough qualified analysts available." Jon's demeanor was sullen, but resigned. Apparently this wasn't anything new for him. However, for Grissom, this was a new version of politics that he wasn't familiar with at all.

"So your tribe is willing and able to provide funding for whatever is necessary, but the state forbids it?"

"Something like that," Jon replied. "You needn't worry yourself about that. You're here as our guest, and not our client. And I must add that having you here is an unexpected bonus for us. We are familiar with you and your lab's reputation. You're worth more to us than most of the consultants we could scrounge up anyways. And you have worked with the state's forensics analyst Sara Sidle before, correct? She recently left your lab to come to work here, is that right?"

"Yes," Grissom replied neutrally. "That's right." Somebody had done their homework, it seemed.

"We've reviewed both your records, and, if you'll forgive the callousness, we figure we've hit the forensics jackpot. If you two can't crack this case, nobody can." Jon beamed at Grissom, his youthful exuberance and hope overflowing his voice.

"I appreciate your optimism, Detective. I'll do the best that I can, but please keep in mind that forensic evidence is just that – evidence. The courts are the true decision makers."

"Yeah, yeah. I know. But still, sir, I'm pleased that you are the one that decided to come and help us. Really. Now, are you ready to head over to the lab? Although I'm sure it isn't as cutting edge as yours back home, our tribe does provide some funding to support their needs."

"I'm sure it will be fine, Detective. My rental car is parked in the garage. Where should I meet you to follow you there?"

"If you don't mind," Jon asked politely, "I can drive over with you to show you the way, and then get a ride back afterwards. It's easier that way."

"Not a problem," Grissom replied. "Thank you for bringing me up to speed."

"Here," Jon said, handing him a medium-sized manila folder. "These are copies of all the paperwork we've compiled so far. We're treating this as a serial killer, so both murders are one case now. Shall we go?"

They left the casino, Grissom leading Jon to his rental car, and hesitantly handing him the keys. He had splurged, and rented an Audi A4, with the mixed transmission and the sport suspension. "You can drive standard, correct?" Grissom asked as he handed Jon the keys.

"Sure. No problem." The next five minutes were pure terror, as Jon drove like a maniac out of the parking garage and through various side roads that led them behind a large one-story brick building. Jon whirled the car into a parking spot, slammed it into park, and handed the keys back to Grissom. "Nice. I always wanted to drive an Audi. _Sweet_."

Grissom could do nothing but gape wide-eyed at the young man's audacity. He took back the keys and swore to never let Detective Northwind drive this car again. And he'd never let Greg Sanders drive his own car. _Ever_.

Jon led him through a back door into a darkened corridor. Familiar smells wafted by Grissom. This was the lab and the morgue, for sure. However, as they walked down the hallway, Grissom noticed the lab rooms weren't as open as they were in Vegas. No glass and metal here. Just small wooden doors with shatterproof wire-lined windows. Grissom followed Jon through a set of double doors, into what appeared to be a kitchen or common room. Sitting at one table was a thin, middle-aged man, and Sara.

Grissom's heart rate shot up another 10 beats per second, and he mentally took a deep breath and tried to clear his mind. For the next few days, or longer, he was a representative of the Las Vegas Crime Lab, and he was here to work. Not to woo his ex-employee back home.

Sara turned as he and Jon entered the room. Her companion rose, and walked over to Grissom, hand extended.

"I'm Doctor Michael Nave, lead forensics specialist for this region. You must be Doctor Grissom. I must say; it is an honor and pleasure to finally meet you."

"Thank you, Dr. Nave," Grissom replied politely, focusing his attention on the balding blonde man. "It is regretful that we didn't meet under more fortunate circumstances."

"Yes, I know," the man said gravely. "We aren't used to cases such as these in our community. Most of our work revolves around robberies or domestic disputes. I'm afraid the majority of our staff is not used to these types of crimes."

He then turned his head towards Sara as he continued speaking. "However, we are thrilled that Miss Sidle has joined our team, even if it is only temporary."

Grissom raised an eyebrow at that remark, but didn't dare look at Sara.

"Her experience is impressive, and we could certainly use someone like her in our jurisdiction." He then shot Sara an approving smile, and Grissom watched in horror as Sara smiled slightly in return. "We hope she chooses to stay with us after her contract has ended."

Grissom said nothing to this. What could he possibly say?

"Thank you for dropping off Dr. Grissom, Detective," Dr. Nave said politely to Jon.

"Not a problem. Give me a holler if you need anything. I'm going to go socialize and see who wants to give me a ride back." Jon then turned to Grissom, sticking out his hand. "It was a pleasure meeting you. I'm sure I'll see you around."

Grissom shook the young man's hand, impressed by the strength it held. "Thank you," he said.

"And hey," Jon called as he was mostly through the double doors, "thanks for the ride!"

Dr. Nave and Sara looked a little confused, as Dr. Nave focused his attention back on Grissom.

"Well, we are pleased you are here. Sara will show you all the evidence we've collected so far, and later tonight you should be able to visit the morgue to examine both bodies. Right now it's locked, but sometime before midnight the assistant coroner will be on, and he can let you in."

Grissom nodded, and finally turned to look at Sara. She was looking at them both, her "I am professional and I can handle this" expression plastered harshly onto her face. Well, if she could be professional, he would be too.

"Sara?" Dr. Nave asked, "After you show Dr. Grissom around, the two of you should review the evidence from the Sanchez case first. I'll call Tom to see if I can get him in here around 9 or 10. And remind me to ask him about getting a key again. I spoke with Hal earlier, but you know how he is."

Sara nodded, "Sounds find to me, Mike. We'll be in A-3 if you need us, and if something comes up, just send me a message."

"I love that, you know," Dr. Nave said to Grissom with a smile. "We'd been using pagers to reach each other, but Sara brought us into the 21st century with the beauty of text messaging and cell phones. And she went and found that the state will subsidize them for our department. Those little gadgets make life so much easier."

Grissom smiled weakly. Sara had made an impression on her new boss. A good one. Like he should be surprised? Sara made an impression on everyone she worked with. Still, knowing that she was working, and working hard, for someone other than him; it was bothersome. Grissom found himself growing resentful of the mild-mannered Dr. Nave.

Sara stood and gestured slightly for Grissom to follow her. So he did, knowing full well that there was no way in Hell she was going to stay here for the rest of her life. He'd bring her back to Vegas, kicking and screaming if he had to, but she would _not_ waste her life and her talents in this two-bit hole of a lab, with Mr. Dorfwad over there as her supervisor. There was just _no way_ Grissom was going to let that happen.

_No way in Hell._

…_continued next chapter ->_


	9. part2chap2

… _part 2, chapter 2 …_

Sara had given him a brief tour of the lab as ordered, although she hadn't said more than ten words to him. Grissom made sure he could find the men's room again, and he could find the morgue, but the rest of the building was a maze of pale cinderblock hallways and cold, monotonous doors.

When Sara finally brought him to the State of Connecticut's version of an analysis room, she handed him the case file for Maria Sanchez without a word. She then sat down at the far end of the table; opened Diana Somers's file and began reviewing what appeared to be lab results, periodically making notes in her small notepad.

Grissom followed her lead, and started in on the Sanchez file. He soon was lost in the hunt for details; examining each scene photo closely with the magnifying glass from his kit. He felt the need to find that particular detail he was sure these bumblers had missed. However, whoever documented the Sanchez scene had been quite thorough and, like before, there was nothing worthwhile in the way of incriminating evidence.

"Not much at the scene is there?" he asked her quietly.

"No," she replied, still staring down at the results in front of her. "I didn't work the first scene, but I worked the Somers one." She paused for a moment, raising her head to meet his eyes. "There was nothing there, Grissom. Nothing."

"I know," he said softly. "I know you wouldn't miss anything."

She smiled a little, and went back to reviewing her results. He watched her for a moment before turning back to his work. He began to focus on comparison evidence – proving that the three cases were indeed caused by the same individual. He started with Miss Sanchez's lab work, noting that there was nothing unusual about the bleach found at the scene. It appeared to be common household bleach, readily available at any supermarket or convenience store.

Grissom sighed to himself. He pulled out his paperwork from the Walker file, studying his lab's trace results. Again, common household bleach. Nothing special there either.

He moved on to bloodwork. Both women had high levels of flunitrazepam in their system. "Rohypnol," he muttered.

"Roofies. Diana had it in her bloodwork too," Sara murmured in reply. "Both Diana and Maria also had traces of alcohol. Yet they had little to no food in their stomachs. Those results aren't conclusive, but they're thinking all they had was some type of wine or champagne."

"Doesn't matter. With this much Rohypnol, they didn't put up much of a fight."

"They didn't put up any fight at all."

Sara's face was strained with anger. But she sighed to herself, and the strain eased. She returned to her paperwork and her notebook, logging something or other that she felt was important. Grissom started in on the body photographs. The Walker woman's death was ruled exsanguination, and the photograph of a deep slice across her jugular pretty much ruled out anything else. Grissom flipped through the Sanchez photos, trying to keep the two separate. His eyes narrowed when he saw the same harsh line across her lean throat.

"Sara, cause of death for the Somers woman was exsanguination, right?"

"Yes Grissom, all three are the same. That _is_ why you're here, isn't it? The same COD, same presentation, the same _everything_. That's what prompted me to call… this is a serial." She waited a moment before stating bluntly, "A vicious rapist bastard, too."

Grissom pulled out the SART results for Maria Sanchez. Clock results indicated rape, as well as significant bruising and tearing. The Walker woman's results showed a similar scenario. He glanced over at Sara, and she handed him the SART for the Somers woman without Grissom saying a word. Grissom reviewed it briefly, noting only that the bruising and tearing for this woman was less than the others.

"Diana Somers wasn't … as bad as the other two," Grissom stated.

"I know," Sara said quietly

"Any guesses as to why?"

"Time. The results don't present as an object rape." Sara's voice was bitter; she was keeping her emotions in check, but just barely. "He… he raped them… numerous times. And he didn't hold back. He was… rough with them."

"You'd have to wonder how he didn't harm himself in the process," Grissom mused.

Sara was silent for a minute, thinking. "Condoms," she stated simply.

Grissom's face displayed his confusion, and the fact that this conversation was heading into awkward territory.

Sara saw his face, and said simply, "Friction. Use of a condom protects him to some degree. He also could use lubricant for himself, but not her."

"Most lubricants eat through latex condoms."

"First, he may not have cared; used a new one each time. It's not like he was protecting them from anything. Second, he may have used a condom-safe lubricant. Third, he might have used lambskin. I do know there was no trace of nonoxonyl-9 in Miss Walker or Miss Somers. I checked for that. Then again, most chemical trace was compromised by the bleach."

"Was trace run for particles of latex or lambskin?"

"Latex maybe, but probably not lambskin." Sara made a note in her binder, and Grissom knew she'd have a trace run for both later tonight. From what he remembered, there weren't many brands of lambskin condoms available on the market. Not like he'd done any shopping for any type of condoms… god, in years. However, if the lab returned traces of lambskin, they could compare that to the market brands, and maybe who had bought them recently.

Sara went back to ignoring Grissom, as if their conversation had never happened. This was fine by him, for now. He didn't want to know how she was so up to speed on condoms, and how men might make them more enjoyable.

Grissom went back to his photographs. He paused at a photo of the Walker woman's chest. He flipped quickly through the paperwork from the Sanchez file to a similar upper body photograph. He sat back in his chair, comparing the two. On the Walker woman, there was a slight cut which seemed to resemble the letter "J". On the Sanchez woman, the cut resembled a cursive letter "A". Both cuts were shallow, and made peri-mortem.

"Sara, do you have the autopsy photos of the Somers woman?"

Sara looked up at him, and began shuffling through her papers. "No, not yet." She sighed in frustration. "I'm sorry. This isn't like Vegas. Some things take a little longer here. Photographs not taken at the scene seem to be extremely difficult. You need special paperwork to get them processed quickly." She rolled her eyes at his confused expression. "Don't ask me, I don't know. It's like they've never heard of one-hour photo places. Or digital cameras. It's film all the way here."

"It's okay. We'll see both bodies later tonight. I want to check this," he said, and he handed the two photos over to her.

She studied them for a moment. "He's marking them?"

"I'm not sure. The photo on the left is the Walker woman, from Vegas. The one on the right is Sanchez. That certainly looks like an 'A' on her."

"Scarlet letter?" Sara asked with a sneer. "You've got to be kidding me."

"We'll check it out tonight. At least it's something." Grissom smiled softly at her.

"Let me look through the interview documentation. Maybe she was a little 'friendly' with the wrong man. The Walker woman was a dancer, right?"

Grissom leafed through his paperwork. "Yes."

"Exotic?"

"No. But we don't know what she did with her spare time."

"Unlikely that she'd do both. Still, maybe she caught the attention of the wrong guy."

"That same guy who left Vegas, and came here. The only thing common between Vegas and here is the casino. We should look into Mohegan Sun employees that recently moved here from Vegas."

"I'll have Jon look into it," Sara said. "He's pretty good at expediting things."

"That's because he's a tribal member, Sara."

"How'd you come to that conclusion?" she asked him tentatively, like he'd found out some kind of special secret.

"It wasn't hard. He's rather boisterous and proud of what his tribe has accomplished. In a way, he reminds me of Greg."

"Really? He reminds me of Brass."

"Jim?"

"Oh you can't tell me that back in his prime, Brass wasn't just as cocky and full of himself as Jon is. He's still cocky and full of himself now." Sara's voice was tinged with laughter.

"I won't admit to the fact that Jim Brass was an obnoxious prick back in his day. I wasn't there. Although," he said, lowering his voice to a loud whisper, "I might have heard he was a terror." Sara smiled at that.

"You know, we're doing this all wrong," Grissom blurted. "We need to compare these three women side-by-side. We'll get a better feel for what's in common, and we can work it through." He paused before asking her hesitantly, "You agree?"

Sara stiffened for a moment, taking offense that she would ever do something "wrong", but she sighed as she picked up her paperwork and moved next to him. She agreed.

It took them a half hour to sort through the many photos and arrange them side-by-side. They had spent the last fifteen minutes standing inches from each other, examining the table before them. Grissom marveled at how Sara had moved closer to him without even realizing it. She had just fallen into their normal routine of working together. He was thrilled, but anticipating a backlash once she realized how close they were. Still, perhaps whatever she was dreading about working with him was fading away. Perhaps she had missed him as much as he missed her. _God, she smells exactly the same. That light, sweet scent… Jesus._

"This is interesting," Sara said, lifting two photos of the women's hands. Grissom snapped out of his Sara-induced trance and focused on the pictures. "Walker and Sanchez have the same type of ligature marks on their wrists."

"Were they bound at the scene?" he asked.

"I don't think so," Sara said, routing through the papers off to the side. "Somers wasn't. But we're missing a lot with that."

Grissom walked over to the far side of the table and flipped through the scene documentation. "Nothing noted in the Walker case. Not with Sanchez, either."

Sara looked at him intently. "They were tied. And then released. Post mortem?" She studied the pictures again. "These aren't typical either. What do you think?" she said as he walked towards her, taking the photos as she handed them to him.

Grissom adjusted his glasses and stared at the photos. That didn't help. Old eyes. He reached for his magnifying glass, and studied each photo carefully under the thick lens.

"This isn't rope, or those plastic tie wraps. Or leather. This is something different. Something thinner, dull. And there is something different with the way they were bound. See the rough marks under the pad of the thumbs?" He handed one of the photos back to Sara.

Sara studied it again, the photo resting lightly in her palm. "You're right. This isn't typical. Did we swab for trace for this with the Walker woman?"

"Doubtful. I remember we did minimal trace because of the bleach." He frowned at this, frustrated that they had missed something. He paused stiffly as he remembered Sofia, and their conversation about this exact thing. Sofia felt it wasn't necessary for the expensive test, as they had nothing for comparison. His frown deepened. He had agreed. Perhaps that wasn't his best decision.

"Why? I would have seen this…ran it…" Sara murmured, trying to remember. She was frustrated. "What did I do, forget?"

"You didn't forget, Sara. Sofia did the trace. She was the primary, and she felt it wasn't probative. At the time, I agreed."

"Oh," she said. Grissom watched her face fall, as she remembered why Sofia had done the trace, and she had not. He had kept her on the sidelines with this case. The memory shattered their fragile camaraderie. Sara stepped away from him and reverted back to her professional, unfeeling demeanor from earlier in the evening. Grissom mentally groaned. _Well, that ends that._

"Well then. I suppose we'll see what we'll find in the morgue." Sara's tone was much more subdued as she looked up at the small clock on the wall. "Tom will be in soon. We'll swab them then." She looked down at the table. "We should straighten this up. Other teams use this room too."

"Sounds like a plan. We wouldn't want to hog all the premium table space." Grissom smiled at her, trying to restore something, anything, from their mood earlier, but Sara wasn't having any of it. She was back in her walls-up mode, picking up their neatly piled paperwork, ignoring him. Grissom helped her in silence, and soon they had cleared the small table and filed everything away.

Sara wasn't about to sit around and chat with him while they waited for the assistant coroner. "I'm going to check in with Mike to tell him what we've found and see if we can expedite our stuff in trace tonight. And I'll see if I can work something with those photos." She paused when she reached the door. "You'll be okay by yourself, right?"

"I'm fine, Sara."

After she left, Grissom sighed heavily and rested his forehead against his palm. All his grandiose thoughts of sweeping Sara away from this and back home seemed to be drifting further and further away. There was too much negative history between them. And the possibility of any romantic encounters with her seemed impossible. Maybe he should just finish the case and go home. He frowned immediately at the thought of returning to the lab and catching hell from everyone else when there was no Sara with him. What about the tux? And the dinner? Ugh. This was not part of his plan, and his pride was beginning to sting. She was supposed to care for him, and maybe she did, but she wasn't falling into his arms, begging for rescue. If anything it was the exact opposite. _Like I expected anything different?_

Grissom groaned in frustration and annoyance at himself and the whole damn situation. He'd gotten himself into a load of shit this time, hadn't he?

oooooooooooooooo

Sara returned with Dr. Nave about ten minutes later.

Dr. Nave spoke in his annoyingly calm and authoritative tone. "So, Sara tells me you've found some interesting details concerning the… abuse and the use of restraints. Excellent. And I've signed off on the documentation necessary to expedite the photography. You won't have to worry about that anymore." He turned and smiled softly at Sara, the last statement clearly meant for her and not him. "Our nightshift coroner has decided to grace us with his presence, so if you're ready, we can head off to the morgue."

Grissom nodded, and the trio made their way to the morgue. Grissom found himself studying the cold steel room; comparing it to the one in Vegas and his old morgue in LA. This one was smaller, but it appeared to be on par with Vegas. The slabs were older; as were the drawers, but there was a new video recording setup as well as two newer sets of autopsy implements. Grissom wondered if these were contributions from the Mohegan tribe.

Yet another younger man stood by the far wall, leaning against the side of an opened and clearly occupied body drawer. This must be Tom. Grissom scowled slightly. Was anyone in this building over 45 besides him and Nave?

"Hey, Mike. Hey, Sara… what brings you to my humble abode?" Tom smiled and stepped towards them, a flirtatious grin on his round face. The grin faded when Tom noticed Grissom. "Ah," he said in a false somber tone, "you've brought company. Hello, Company. Tom Berman, Southeastern Connecticut Assistant Coroner." Tom stuck out his hand, and Grissom found himself forced to shake the pudgy and sweaty appendage.

"Dr. Gil Grissom, Las Vegas Crime Lab," Grissom said with authority. "Former chief medical examiner to the Los Angeles Police Department." He was hoping this information would put the younger man in his place.

"Oh! A former corpse carver like myself. It's a pleasure." Tom pumped Grissom's arm vigorously. "I'll bet you've seen all kinds of gory goodness. Any decent mutilations? How many things have you boiled down? I haven't done a head yet, but my boss has. He's on days. Around here, all the interesting stuff happens during the day. Well, except for maybe recently. Hey, after break you can come by and we can share corpse stories. That'd be great. I'll bet at your age, you've seen lots of stuff." Grissom held back an eye-roll. Lucky him, he'd made a new friend.

"So, I'll bet you're here to look at Beauty Number One and Beauty Number Two, right? I've got Number One out over here. Number Two is in the back."

Grissom reluctantly followed the waddling Tom back to the young woman's body, so he didn't quite hear what Dr. Nave muttered to Sara. All he caught was a parting, "… need anything, let me know. And remember what I said, hmm?" It appeared Dr. Nave wasn't staying around to examine the bodies. Gee, what a shame. Sara joined them, standing next to Tom on one side of the drawer, leaving Grissom alone on the other.

"We'll need to swab her and Diana's wrists for trace, Tom," Sara stated. "And we'll need you to take some upper body close-ups tonight. Send them out to get developed one-hour, okay? And if you've still got them, the general autopsy photos on Diana, those can go one-hour too. I got it approved through Mike."

"No problem, m'dear," Tom replied.

"Well," Sara said, "there's the 'A'. Sure looks like one, doesn't it?"

Grissom bent over and studied the cut. "It's clean, made by something sharp, like a scalpel or razor blade. Peri-mortem."

"I thought the same thing," Tom blurted. "Scalpel or razor blade made that. Although I thought it was an 'O'."

"For now," Sara frowned, "we just know it's a cut that may resemble a letter. Get lots of good photos, okay Tom?"

Sara then turned to Grissom, a patient look on her face. She apparently was waiting for him to do something. He tilted his head at her in return. _What do you want?_

"Wrists? Swab?" she said with a hint of sarcasm.

"Be my guest," he returned sweetly.

She shot him a dark look, but seemed to acquiesce as she reached into her pocket and withdrew gloves and two capped swabs. After snapping the gloves on, she gently lifted Maria Sanchez's left wrist and brushed the cotton tip against the deepest imprints of the ligature marks. Sara walked around the drawer and around Grissom to do the same with the right.

"Some bruising here," she murmured. "But not on the left…" She straightened, and stared down at the body, thinking while snapping the swab cover shut.

"Could be that he grabbed her and yanked," Grissom said.

"Tom, would you get close-ups of her wrists as well?" Sara smiled charmingly at Tom, and the large man smiled brightly in return.

"Your wish is my command, madame."

It seemed a second coroner had succumbed to Sara's charms, Grissom thought as he pictured the taller and thinner David in his mind, smiling with the same lovelorn expression.

Sara faced Grissom, all business again. "Something is off here. If she was held down, there would be bruising on both wrists, not one."

"Let's examine Miss Somers. Maybe she has more to say than Miss Sanchez."

Sara smirked at Grissom as a confused Tom led them back into another room, where a shorter, heavier woman was lying on the steel table.

"Well, Dr. Grissom, here she is, but she isn't saying much."

Grissom winked at Sara, and she fought smiling in return. She knew his game, but Grissom couldn't help himself. Poor Tom was so clueless.

"Ah, but Mr. Berman, she's saying many things."

Tom was utterly baffled. His expression was priceless.

"See," Grissom said as he snapped on a glove from his kit. "Here, in her hair, we can see that she was bathed in bleach post mortem. Along her hairline, the blonde color is lighter than along the ends. This would be because the bleach was not washed out completely, and settled there. If you'd look at Miss Sanchez, she has the same issue, although it isn't as prevalent. Her hair is darker, of course."

He then pointed to the woman's chest. "Also, she carries a letter resembling an 'A', or an 'O', like you mentioned. We'll need detailed photos of that, of course. And again, you can see this was done peri-mortem, and with a sharp implement – most likely the same one used on Miss Sanchez." He then snapped on the other glove, purely for dramatic effect. Sara couldn't quite stop from rolling her eyes at him, and he smirked at her in return.

"Clearly," Grissom stated, tracing his finger along the deep slash across the woman's throat, "this woman is saying she died of exsanguination like her friend."

Grissom paused for a moment, and turned to Sara. "We'll need to compare the photos of this with the others. We should be able to prove the same implement was used for these two, and maybe the third." Sara nodded. She would remember. Grissom focused his attention back to the young coroner as he walked around the metal slab to lift the woman's left wrist. He took out his own capped swab, and spoke quietly while collecting the sample.

"Here she's saying that her wrists were bound in a similar manner to Miss Sanchez. She's screaming to us that what happened to her, happened to Miss Sanchez as well." He turned to Sara briefly. "We'll have to take these to trace, of course, but I'm willing to bet that if there are any residual particles from whatever bound them, they will be the same for both women."

Grissom walked around to the right side of the woman's body, and withdrew another swab for the woman's right wrist. "And again, this woman speaks to us, saying that she too has bruising on her right, but not her left."

"Really?" Sara said, walking over to stand beside Grissom as he nodded.

"See for yourself," he said, turning the dead woman's wrist gently.

"What _is_ this?" Her eyes were intense, demanding he answer the question.

"I don't know," he said quietly. "It looks exactly like he held her down. But why only the one side?"

Sara sighed, clearly thinking. Grissom turned to Tom. "I think we're done here."

"Take as many photos as you can, Tom," Sara said. "And have Jim or some other intern rush them over to get them developed as quickly as possible. We need them."

"Not a problem. Thanks for the interesting lesson on communing with the dead, Dr. Grissom."

Grissom smiled politely at Tom, and focused on Sara. "You look like you need to run this. Where should we go?"

"Follow me," she said with a sniff. "I'll show you the one place we missed on our first tour. My office."

Grissom paused. _She has an office?_

…_continued next chapter ->_


	10. part2chap3

… _part 2, chapter 3 …_

"Welcome to my little slice of corporate America," Sara said sarcastically. "I don't come here often."

"Sara… it's… it's nice."

She sneered. "Please."

They were in what appeared to be the basement of the building. Large heating pipes were visible overhead, and they'd been painted a horrific light green color to match the cinderblock walls. It had taken many coats of paint for both the walls and the ceiling to be covered thoroughly, and in some spots, beads of hardened paint ran down the wall or along a pipe. The air was stuffy, and smelled slightly of mold and heating oil. The hum of the fluorescent lights overhead was the only sound to be heard. This place was a tomb.

Okay, maybe it wasn't so bad. There was carpeting on the floor, and the twelve foot by twelve foot room had been partitioned off into four separate cubicle areas. All were unoccupied. Sara led him to the far corner on the left, close to the small rectangle of a window overhead. Yup, this was definitely the basement. The window proved it. Scattered beams of light from the parking lot outside could be seen between the blades of grass touching the window pane.

Sara's desk was clean; a rarity for her. Grissom wondered where she really worked, since it obviously wasn't down here. He could respect her aversion to this place. He had always suspected she had issues with claustrophobia, and although he didn't, the walls did feel like they were closing in on him. He noticed the other desks had boxes of tissues or little personal effects from home, whereas Sara's had nothing of the sort. The only item she had was a newer-looking phone off to one side, complete with a blinking red message light. Someone had called her.

"You have a message."

She "hmmph'ed" in response. Okay, so she's not eager to check her voicemail. Grissom wondered who her caller was. Nobody from Vegas knew that number. She pulled up the chair from her neighbor and rolled it towards her cube. She motioned for Grissom to sit.

"Won't your co-worker mind?"

"Nope – they're all on days. I don't even know if I've met that one yet. So," she said, flipping to a new page on her notebook, "let's get organized. What do we know? And what do we need to do?"

"Well, for one, we need to figure out what made those ligature marks. We need to wait for trace, and if we don't get anything conclusive, we're going to have to experiment."

"Agreed," Sara said, her pen flying across the paper. She flipped that page and started on another. "We have nothing in terms of DNA. We have nothing about the bleach used, and nothing from the scene."

"Are we sure of that? Did they check the bedding? Trace hairs? ALS?"

"I was thorough with the Somers scene. I found her hair on the bed. But that wasn't a surprise, she booked the room. She slept in that bed."

"Sara, Detective Northwind thought it was odd that she paid for the room in the first place; that she'd come to the Sun after her friend was murdered there. He said the rooms are expensive."

"They are. And I agree… it's odd," she said as she scribbled in her pad. She tapped the pen against her lip, thinking. "Maybe he knew both of them before the killings. Met Diana through Maria, and killed Diana to shut her up. There was what… three days between Maria's death and Diana's?"

"No, I think it was more like a week, or longer." Grissom flipped through the files they'd picked up on their way here. "Maria Sanchez was most likely murdered on Friday, September 9th. They found her on the 11th." Sara noted this. "Diana Somers was found on the 20th, and her time of death is assumed to be earlier that day."

"So," Sara mused, "a whole week passed before Diana's death. What'd she do before she died? And why'd she stay at the casino?"

"Maybe a visit to her next of kin is in order," Grissom stated.

"I didn't do that interview; I was here in the lab. But I heard that her parents were devastated. She was very close to them, lived at home."

"Sounds like we should pay them a visit."

"Not tonight, Griss. It's almost midnight. They're elderly. They're sleeping."

"Tomorrow then. What else do we have?"

"SART results. Shit, I wanted Tom to run a trace on both for latex and lambskin. Let me call Mike and tell him." Sara reached for her phone, and dialed. "Mike? It's Sara. Yes, I'm using my real phone." She smiled at the voice on the other line, and Grissom scowled. "I need a favor. Could you or… someone else get a hold of Tom? I forgot to ask him to run trace on the vaginal contents. We're looking for latex or lambskin in particular. Yeah, the condoms. Thanks, Mike." Sara hung up the phone and spun her chair back to face Grissom.

"Okay, so that's done. We're now waiting on trace for condoms, and trace on the ligature marks. Which brings up our next mystery. We need to figure out why they have bruising on only the right wrist, and not both. I have no idea about that, do you?"

"It depends on whether they were bound during, or after the attacks," Grissom said pensively. "Those ligature marks weren't typical either. There were cuts and abrasions beneath the pads of the thumbs, and the marks on the outsides of their wrists were much shallower."

Sara began fiddling with her own wrists, placing them in various binding positions. She paused when she reached on a particular position. She lifted them up, about chest high, running some scenario through her head.

"We need rope. Or something. You need to tie me up."

Grissom blinked at her. "We don't know what was used."

"Doesn't matter; it's the position that's important for this."

Grissom reached into his kit, and pulled out a small ball of string that he used to mark areas for casting. He also pulled out his Leatherman, and flipped it open to act as scissors.

"Excellent," Sara replied. "Now, tie me up," she said, holding out her crossed hands to him.

"Sara, you don't need to do this. We can use something else. You don't need to hurt yourself for this."

"It won't hurt – you'll see. I have an idea. Now tie me up!" She thrust her hands at him. "Now!"

Grissom wrapped the soft cotton string around her wrists like she requested. This felt a hundred times more awkward then when he'd done this with… tape, yes, duct tape… years ago. He didn't meet her eyes this time, and he didn't smile at her. When he'd finished, her wrists were tied, crossed left over right, each thumb facing out.

_Ah. Now I see what she's getting at. How does she figure this shit out?_

"Do you see?" Sara said to him, her eyes bright with the question.

"Yes. But we can't prove it right now. Here… let me untie you." Grissom reached for her, but she jerked her hands away, standing to gesture at the ceiling.

"The pipes. They'll hold my weight."

"Doubtful… Sara, be realistic. That string won't hold you. It'll snap and you'll fall. And those pipes are not secure. You'll break them, or your foolish neck."

"It'll just be for a second. I'll stand on the chair or something. This _has _to be it!"

Sara was alive, animated, and _bound_ before him. And she wanted him to dangle her by her wrists from a pipe in the ceiling. _Jesus. _Despite the semi-erotic implication hammering itself into his brain, affecting other parts of his body that he was _steadfastly ignoring right now_, Grissom knew her theory was accurate. These women had been bound in the same way, and had somehow been hung from their wrists. The weight of their bodies had caused the bruising under their thumbs, leaving the other sides of their wrists with only minimal damage. Sara was right.

"I think you're on to something. But I don't want you dangling from an old, potentially rusted-out pipe. We'll need to wait for trace, Sara. We can't prove anything unless we recreate the exact scenario."

"Then we need to do this at the hotel. I'll have to run that by Jon, although he should be all right with it." She looked down at her wrists, twisting them back and forth in agitation. "I'm thinking the shower head. Or the clothes bar in the closet. Or maybe a hook on the door. Still, a hook might not hold the weight of someone like Diana Somers. She wasn't obese or anything, but she wasn't my size either."

"You don't think you're going to be our test case at the hotel, do you?" he asked as he snipped the strings between her palms, freeing her.

"Sure, why not?" she replied, rubbing her wrists lightly to restore the circulation to her hands.

"Sara, no. Like I said, we'll use something else for this. Like a pig or a cadaver."

"No, no more pigs. And I am _not_ hauling a cadaver through that casino! It's got to be a live person – specifically, me."

"It does not. And you know… it doesn't even need to be a whole pig. We could use a leg, or a …"

"I am not dealing with another rotting pig carcass, okay?"

"Sara, you are not a forensics crash test dummy. I'm not going to watch you dangling from various fixtures in a hotel room, hurting yourself in the process. Did you not see the damage this caused to those women?"

Sara signed heavily in frustration. "Grissom, you are not in Vegas anymore. The accessibility of dead pigs and donated cadavers is pretty slim out here. It won't kill me, and it's for the good of the case. And we'll be careful about it."

Grissom groaned, exasperated, while Sara scowled her 'We're doing this my way' scowl at him. He'd seen this one before, so he glared his 'You'll do what I say, missy' glare right back at her.

"I'm doing it, Griss."

"I don't think so."

"It doesn't matter what you think," she said snidely. "I'll tell Mike and he'll be okay with it, because he lets me do whatever I want. And he's my supervisor now, not you."

Yeowch. That stung. Grissom's face cringed, but he kept his mouth shut. It served him no purpose to reply to that; he wasn't about to escalate this argument. So he began a vigil with the floor. He stared intently at the pea green commercial grade carpeting, most likely covering a slab of concrete. He missed Sara's face fall in shock as the words left her mouth. He missed her horrified expression when she realized what she said. All he noticed were the various shades of green speckles in the carpet.

A moment passed before she spoke, her voice filled with grief. "I'm sorry. That was inappropriate and uncalled for. And horribly unprofessional. I didn't mean it, Grissom." She reached out and put her hand on his knee. "I didn't. I'm sorry. This is hard for me."

He didn't move; didn't acknowledge the heat of her hand on his leg. "You don't have to apologize. I'm not your supervisor. It doesn't matter what I think."

"God, Grissom. It does, okay? This is hard for me. I never expected to see you again."

"Must be awful for you... seeing me here."

"No… yes… oh, you wouldn't understand. God, look, I'm sorry, okay? What I said was wrong. And childish. I'm sorry."

Grissom couldn't bring himself to look at her. He felt nothing but the need to get away, to escape this awkwardness. Only this time, there was no place to hide, nowhere to run. For either of them.

Sara lifted her hand away and sat back in her chair with a sigh. Time passed between them. Grissom finally broke their stalemate.

"What did your supervisor say to you tonight, before we went to the morgue." Grissom stated this quietly. It wasn't a question.

Sara paused a moment before answering. "He asked if having you here was difficult for me. I told him it was. He said he could have someone else work the case. I said absolutely not. He then told me that I shouldn't be so harsh towards you. That coming here was probably more difficult for you than having you here is for me. If it was a similar situation with him and one of his old employees, he would try very hard to make things as comfortable as possible. And that he'd appreciate it if the employee did the same. He said I should put myself in your shoes."

Grissom didn't move a muscle. "Sounds like you have a wise supervisor now."

"No, I have a shrink for a supervisor," she said wryly. "His doctorate is in psychology. He's got another degree or something in forensic psychology. Before he worked here, he ran counseling services for convicts. So he understands the criminal mind. It's actually a little creepy. The state adores him. Think he's brilliant."

Grissom said nothing. However, his vigil with the green carpeting was beginning to cause some pain in the lower part of his neck. He was going to have to end it soon. God, not having an office or a safe place to run to _really sucked._ He was beginning to get a bit irritated with this whole scenario. He came here to open up to her, bring her home. That fell through due to work, which was typical with him. He figured they'd get past it; work together as a team. Yet, here they were again, with her doing the talking and him doing nothing.

Sara began fiddling with her notepad, like she had with her magazine at Fidelia's the night before. Around this time, in fact. Grissom decided history shouldn't repeat itself two days in a row.

"It's your break time, right? Time for lunch?" he said softly, lifting his head to face her. His eyes smiled at her confused expression. She scanned the wall, searching for and finding a duplicate clock to the one in the analysis room they'd occupied earlier.

"It is," she said. "If you're hungry, there are a couple of places up the road from here…"

"Go tell your shrink boss that we're taking our break, and we'll go get something decent to eat."

She eyed him curiously, but stood and walked towards the doorway. She turned to see if he was following her.

"I'll wait here," he said. She frowned slightly at this, but Grissom wasn't up for another chat with the good doctor. Besides, he and Sara needed a little time away from each other after that. Well, he did. He needed to think.

Grissom was still hurt by what she said, and his mind hadn't forgotten the image of her defiant and bound before him. That was straight out of Erotic Sara Fantasy #7. And he was in for a repeat performance of that? God help him.

But again, regarding their battle of wills tonight, this was an ongoing problem between them. And when he did nothing, he solved nothing. It was time to start solving this problem, and for now, that involved establishing a truce. Step one could be having dinner tonight, together, alone. The first time they'd had dinner together, it had been at that little seafood place in San Francisco. He doubted this evening's meal would compare to that night, but it was at least a step in the right direction. _I hope_.

oooooooooooooooooooooo

It was his first time staying in someone else's home, other than when he visited with his mother. He was unsure of what Sara expected of him. She had given him a brief tour, showing him where the extra towels and toiletries were as well as the locations of all the necessities in the kitchen. He was free to help himself to whatever he wanted, and she would be back shortly after her run.

Gil barely had time to blink before Sara and her skimpy shorts were out the door, leaving him alone in a stranger's home.

He brought his suitcase into her spare bedroom. He felt weird without his kit, its absence was noticeable. He hoped Charlie's people found it soon, no matter what condition it was in. He placed the suitcase on the floor, and examined his new temporary bedroom. The walls were white, decorated with framed certificates and faded movie posters. The comforter on the full-sized bed was a pale green, simple and somewhat worn. Most likely it was a fallback from her college days. The sheets were clean, and a faint sweet scent, similar to honeysuckle, seemed to waft throughout the place. Gil wondered if it was her laundry detergent or a special candle.

He wandered into the small bathroom they were to share. God, this was going to be weird. The closet-sized bath redefined the word small, but it was bright like the spare bedroom. The walls were white, with a framed print of bright flowers. White fluffy towels hung from white towel racks, and a clear (_clear!_) vinyl shower curtain protected the bathtub. Well, it wasn't entirely clear. There were cheerful flowers painted here and there, but there were far too few for his liking. If she were to walk in here while he was in the shower, she'd see everything. Then again, why would she do that? He was letting his imagination get the best of him.

He walked by her bedroom, wondering what was inside. His own bedroom was sparse, with simple sheets on a queen-sized bed. Everything in his condominium was sparse; dark and utilitarian. And he liked it that way.

He peeked beyond her bedroom door. Simple wooden furniture lined the bare cobalt blue walls, the low wooden headboard for her queen-sized bed resting along the furthest wall. A large rectangular window was above it, bathing the foot of the bed and the hope chest in the afternoon sunlight. The carpeting was thick, the same neutral beige color as the rest of the apartment.

Her bedding and curtains were simple as well; antique white lace. It was feminine, but not flowery like the bathroom. This room felt more like his impression of Sara than the other two. On her nightstand he spotted more forensics magazines. The rest of the furniture held little more than a lamp or a potted plant.

He suddenly felt like he was intruding on something private to her, which was understandable, since he was. So he stepped back and continued down the small hallway to the kitchen and living area.

The kitchen was clean, although there wasn't much food in her fridge. Leftover Chinese food cartons rubbed elbows with leftover pizza wrapped in plastic wrap. Sara clearly wasn't a fan of cooking. However, she was big on snacks, and Gil discovered the bag of Cheetos in the pantry to the right of the refrigerator. It was already opened, so he helped himself to that bag and a bag of BBQ potato chips.

Sara also had varied stock of beer in her fridge; leftovers from six-packs perhaps. Most of the beers were local brews. Gil snagged an interesting-looking one with a cartoon of a voluptuous purple fox on the label.

He sat down on the over-stuffed and somewhat threadbare sofa in the living room, and flicked the TV on. Sara had a decent TV, but not as large as his one at home. Oh well, he'd survive. Like a good geek, she had cable, with all the worthwhile channels. Gil was happily munching his Cheetos, having polished off half of the BBQ chips, and was sipping at his beer, watching the new Discovery channel when Sara returned, wet with sweat.

"Hey… so you made yourself comfortable. Good. I'm going to get a shower and then we can figure out what to do for dinner. I'm not much on red meat but I'm a sucker for seafood. How about you?"

"Seafood is fine. Anything is fine. Really, you don't have to go to all this trouble…"

"It's not a problem. I have the space and I want to help. It's the least I can do."

"Well, I appreciate it. Although, I'm kind of spoiling my supper at the moment." He grinned and wiggled his orange-coated fingers at her.

"That's okay. We'll eat whenever you're ready, it doesn't matter to me. But ugh," she said, picking at her already too-tight shirt, "I've _got_ to shower. I'll be back."

Gil kept his attention on the TV and tried not to focus on the fact that a naked Sara was showering 10 feet down the hallway, in a bathroom with a flowery see-through shower curtain. That shower curtain was freaking him out. His shower curtain was solid white and cost 99 cents at Kmart.

She reappeared about 15 minutes later, but he only caught a glimpse of dark, damp hair and white terrycloth before she disappeared into her bedroom. Another five minutes before she returned to the living room, dressed casually and with minimal makeup, rubbing her still-damp hair with a smaller towel.

"God, that's much better. So, I've got to be at work in about… six hours," she said as she looked at the small digital clock on her stove. "If you'd like, we can walk down to a little place along the bay. They have excellent swordfish there. It'll take a good twenty minutes, so it's up to you if you're willing to walk that far. We could drive there, too. Or we could go into the city and really dine out."

"Your little restaurant sounds fine," he said with a smile. "Let me change into better shoes and we'll go for a walk." _Oh God, I just said 'go for a walk.' How domesticated is this?_

He closed the door to his room quietly and hunted through his suitcase for his sneakers and a clean pair of socks. He debating changing his clothes, but he figured he was fine as he was. Jeans and a shirt were acceptable most anywhere.

He ran his comb quickly through his hair, patted his rump to make sure he had his wallet, and checked his breath with the back of his hand. Smelled like Cheetos and beer. Oh well. It wasn't like he was going to kiss her, right? Charlie specifically said she wanted this as professional only. And she'd treated him like a college buddy, a pal. Just because she liked him didn't mean she wanted to jump in the sack with him. And besides, he still wasn't convinced she and Charlie weren't an item.

He joined Sara in the living room where she was waiting for him. "Ready?" she asked.

"Lead the way."

…_continued next chapter ->_


	11. part2chap4

… _part 2, chapter 4 …_

They spent the next half hour wandering along neighborhood sidewalks, or sometimes hugging the curb, chatting aimlessly about nothing. Sara led most of the conversation, pointing out interesting cars along their route, or talking about her recent cases. Grissom joined her in those conversations, and he was completely at ease and enjoying himself by the time they made it to the restaurant.

The small shack was painted white, but the brackish air had set the paint to peeling in places. A small sign read "Sammy's Place" and in smaller letters "A Good Place To Eat". She led him inside, and an older blonde woman smiled in their direction, clearly recognizing Sara. She was the only visible occupant in the building.

Sara led them to a booth along the dark paneled wall. Grissom sat on one side while Sara sat on the other. A thick blue and white checked plastic tablecloth seemed glued to the tabletop, and various napkins and condiments lined the side closest to the wall.

The blonde woman joined them after a few minutes, placing paper placements decorated with advertisements from local businesses in front of them. She also gave them sets of silverware and an extra pile of napkins.

"Why girl, you've brought along a friend. Isn't that nice?" The woman shot Sara one of those female 'communicating' looks, and Sara grinned back at her, with another 'communicating' look that Grissom couldn't read. He hoped whatever it was they were discussing about him was positive. He sat a little straighter when the woman focused her attention on him again. Her nametag read 'Sylvia'.

"Hello, sir. Welcome to Sammy's. I'll bring you both some menus in a jiffy. Sam's writing them up in back. Would you like to see our wine list as well?"

Grissom glanced at Sara, and she nodded.

"Yes, that would be fine. Thank you, Sylvia."

"Well, you are quite welcome!" Sylvia shot another look at Sara as she walked towards the kitchen. Grissom didn't quite catch it, but he caught the slight flush that crept onto Sara's face. _Interesting._

"I come here maybe once or twice a month. Their swordfish is to _die_ for, and this type of place is more my style. My parents ran a low-end bed and breakfast, it catered mostly to… uh… free spirits, so I'm used to a more casual environment." Sara looked down at her placemat, tracing the outline of one of the advertisements with her fingernail. "To be honest, I'm glad you didn't want to go into town. All that fancy dining and proper manners really isn't my thing. I mean, I know which fork goes with what and all, but I'm not a big fan of the highbrow lifestyle."

"Me either," Grissom replied. "Although I can manage if I have to. My mother is an artist."

"Really? Does she have a gallery here in the city? I'd love to see her work."

"No, she hasn't been lucky enough to land a space here, although she's trying. She's tired of southern California; she'd love to come up here. Right now a lot of her stuff is in storage in LA, and she has a small place set up two blocks from Rodeo Drive."

"Wow, Rodeo Drive. I've never been there. Sounds posh." Sara grew quiet, and Grissom got the sense he'd said something wrong. "Are you _sure_ you don't want to eat downtown? There are some very nice restaurants there. We can call a cab and still go if you'd like."

Grissom reached out and placed his hand on hers. He meant to soothe her nerves, make her feel at ease, but the contact shot a fiery jolt through both of them. His eyes were molten steel as he said, "Sara, this is perfect. I'm not like that. I prefer simple things." He unconsciously leaned in closer to her. "_We ascribe beauty to that which is simple_," he quoted softly.

Sara continued to look at him, her eyes getting lost in his, and Grissom felt the pull, the sensual desire to have her closer to him. To touch her face, her hair, to feel her skin upon his. It was intoxicating, and his rational side, pushed far to the back of his mind by his lust, was quietly screaming '_Danger! Danger Wil Robinson! Retreat! Retreat!_' Grissom barely heard it; he was so intent on Sara.

He didn't notice that he'd started rubbing his thumb gently against her palm, but he immediately stopped when Sylvia returned. They both sat up with a start, each a little embarrassed by the situation.

"Hellooo again," she said with a huge grin. "Here are your menus and the wine list. You take your time, sweethearts, and just let me know when you're ready."

"Th-ank you," Sara said, attempting to return her voice to normal.

The connection broken, Sara started in on her menu, and Grissom followed suit with his. It was intriguing, as it was handwritten, with no prices.

"Sara," he whispered, "uh… there are no prices."

"Oh, it's okay. I should have told you. Dinner is $15. No matter what you get. Drinks, well… wine or beer, is extra, and is priced on the wine list."

Grissom shot a glance at the list, noticing that most of the wines were from the Napa Valley across the bridge. None were names he recognized. The most expensive bottle was $69.99, and the cheapest was $19.99.

Sara noticed his interest and said, "They're hand-picked. They're what Sam likes. He said cheap wine is like vinegar…"

"… and dem hunnert-dollar a bottle wines are a pure rip-off!" A raspy male voice from the kitchen hollered out at them, and Sara laughed.

"That's right, Sam," she called back. "I know how it goes."

"You'd better, child," he hollered jokingly in return. This was followed by a large _slap_, and an "Owch!" a few seconds later.

Grissom and Sara both heard Sylvia whisper harshly, "You quit eavesdropping, you oaf! Can't you see they're on a date? They need privacy!"

They both looked at each other, startled and embarrassed, until they heard Sam half-whisper back at his wife, "Well they damn sure came t' the wrong place if they wanted privacy! You've been watching 'em from behind that there counter since they gots here!"

Sara looked at Grissom apologetically, and Grissom couldn't help it, he started to laugh. Soon the two of them were softly giggling like crazy, trying hard not to let on that they'd heard everything the old married couple had said.

"We'd better order," she said, trying to compose herself.

"I agree," he replied. "So, the swordfish is 'to _die_ for', hmm?"

"Yes, really. It is."

Sylvia's head was peeping up from behind the aforementioned counter, and Grissom caught her eye. She popped up and hustled over to the table, her small order pad in hand.

"Are you ready to order, sir?"

"Yes, thank you, Madame. My lady and I will both have your swordfish dinner, along with your chef's choice for an appropriate bottle of wine." Grissom sounded so formal and poised that Sara's eyebrows immediately shot up in surprise.

Sylvia was a little taken aback as well, but Grissom winked at her playfully. Sylvia was no slouch and winked boldly back at him in return.

"Of course, sir," she said in her own version of formality. "I'm sure the chef will pick out something suitable for your meal."

"You betcha I will! But tell 'em I ain't no chef!" was heard from the kitchen, and Sara started giggling again.

Sylvia rolled her eyes, and focused her attention back on Grissom. "Would you like asparagus or mixed baby greens as your side?"

"Mixed for me," Sara stated.

"Me as well," said Grissom.

Sylvia smiled, and jotted down their order with her pink day-glo pen. "We also have a lovely wild rice dish. Would you like that as well?"

Sara nodded as Grissom said, "Sure, that'll be fine."

"I'll see if I can sneak you out a salad and some soup as well," Sylvia whispered, shooting glances towards the kitchen. "I never know what he's got cookin' back there, but I promise you, it's good."

"It is," Sara whispered with sincerity. "He's a genius."

"Thank you very much, Madame," Grissom said to Sylvia with a wink.

A few minutes later, Sylvia brought them a bottle of a local white wine, along with two wine glasses. "Salads are coming in a minute. He made up raspberry vinaigrette to go with 'em."

She shuffled back into the kitchen, and brought out two small plates of a spinach-leaf salad, along with the small vinaigrette decanter.

They both helped themselves, and Grissom was surprised with how fresh everything tasted. He hadn't had much of his wine, but it was light with a mildly fruity taste; not sour at all.

"Did he make this vinaigrette himself, or what?" he murmured to Sara between mouthfuls. "This is excellent."

"I think he does. I think he gets all his produce from his own garden. I'm not sure though, and I didn't want to ask for fear of getting his life's history."

Grissom chuckled softly and returned to his salad. The minute they'd finished, Sylvia presented them with a clear broth soup, cleared their plates, and returned to her observation post behind the counter.

Their soup was some sort of seafood based dish, complete with large chunks of some unidentified tasty fish, soft potatoes, bits of celery and carrots, and the tiniest pearl onions Grissom had ever seen. Whatever it was, it was delicious, and he devoured it in seconds.

Sara took a little longer, but when she was through, Sylvia disappeared through the kitchen door, only to return with a huge tray containing their meal. She delivered it with practiced ease, and Grissom was amazed at what $15 was getting him. The steak on his plate was grilled to perfection, the meat seared properly on the outside; and the inside just white enough to be done but not overcooked. The side bowl of wild rice was mixed with white corn and some other unidentified bits of vegetables, and it reeked of butter. Their mixed greens were tossed in some light oil, and appeared to be grilled.

Grissom shot Sara a 'Holy crap' look and her eyes said 'I told you so' in return.

"You enjoy now, and holler loud if you need anything at all. I've got to go do some of the dishes in back. Sam'll hear you and he'll let me know." Sylvia left them in peace, and Grissom marveled how they could be the only people eating here.

He had to give the older Sammy some credit; the wine went superbly with the fish. And the rice and vegetables were also a nice complement to the meal. Sara and he took their time, and soon, they had both polished off most of their steaks, all of the rice and veggies, as well as most of the bottle of wine.

"Another glass, milady?" he asked her in falsetto.

"Why of course, garcon," she replied in a haughty tone, lifting her glass towards him. He filled it, finishing the bottle, and returned the glass to her. She studied it, sloshing the wine around. "You know, I shouldn't. I have to go to work later tonight."

"Call out sick," Grissom told her, slightly shocked at himself; that he'd suggest such a thing.

Sara looked at him like he had eight heads. "I've never called out sick before, unless I was, like, _really_ sick."

"Well then I'll call Charlie and tell him that you can't come in because I need you to stay with me because I'm afraid of the dark and I don't have my nightlight."

Sara chuckled wryly at that, rolling her eyes at him. "God knows what he'd think if you told him that."

Grissom grew serious. "Does it matter?" he asked.

"Well, yeah," she said, and Grissom's heart fell.

"He's more than my boss, you know. He's my friend. He looks out for me. He reminds me a lot of my older brother." Grissom's heart leapt back up from its pit of despair, returning to its now comfortable spot in his throat. "See, when I was younger, my older brother used to spend a lot of time with me. My parents, were, uh, busy a lot, so he would take me down the street for ice cream, or to get candy. We'd go to a lot of the local little league games, and sometimes he'd be a line coach or the umpire. I never played, but I used to watch a lot. Anyways, Charles is a lot like him."

Sara smiled to herself, lost in her memories. "Charles gave a safety lecture at my high school, oh… my senior year… it was a long time ago, and I wound up talking to him afterwards. He told me a lot about guns and ballistics and how the bullets could tell a story. I was fascinated, but I'd already been accepted to Harvard on a physics scholarship, so when I finished, I came back here – hoping to specialize in ballistics like he did. And the rest, I guess, is history."

"Sounds interesting," Grissom said politely. "Almost romantic, even," he murmured quietly, taking a sip from his glass.

Sara blinked at him, and said, "Romantic? You… wait, no... you don't think…" Then she started laughing.

"What?" he asked innocently, a little offended.

"Charles is head-over-heels in love with a woman he can't have. Some state defense attorney or something. Blonde, long legs, a powerhouse. He's been in love with her since forever, but he won't admit it. And she doesn't give him the time of day, but he's never given up. You can tell. And really, Charles isn't my type. He's a little too… loud for me."

"Oh," Grissom said, somewhat mollified.

"So you don't need to be jealous," she smiled coyly, "or anything."

"I never said I was jealous. I don't know how you'd get such an idea."

"Oh, I dunno. Last Thursday night. Right now, with the questions about him. You thought we were involved."

Grissom tried to look innocent. But he knew he was failing miserably. She'd pegged him dead on and now he felt like a doof.

"So, am I right, or what?" she asked, triumphant.

"Maybe a little," he admitted.

"Well, calm yourself," she said simply. Her voice then took on a different tone. "For a forensics expert, you are pretty oblivious to certain _other _facts, aren't you?"

Grissom's head jerked up, as his eyes met the now smoldering brown of her own.

"Let's get out of here," she said, "shall we?"

Grissom couldn't flag down Sylvia fast enough.

oooooooooooooooooooooo

It took a little longer than Grissom would have liked to leave Sammy's, since after he'd paid $70 for one of the best meals he'd ever had, they both wound up thanking Sylvia, and then Sam for the excellent meal. Sylvia had been brazen enough to give a thumbs-up of approval to Sara as they were walking out the door.

They walked back a little quicker than they had on the way there, both of them quiet for most of the way. Grissom felt alive, and awkward, and the anticipation was killing him. She'd just about come on to him at dinner. And she wasn't involved with Charlie at all. But she had to work tonight. Soon, too.

They were about a block away from Sara's townhouse, when a clap of thunder made them both jump. Sara looked off into the distance, where a bright flash lightened the darkening sky. A few seconds later, another rumbling of thunder echoed across the bay.

"We'd better hurry or we're going to be soaked. These coastal storms build up quickly."

They picked up the pace into something of a slow jog, and as they puffed their way up the hill towards Sara's porch, another intense crackle of thunder shook the ground, and the heavens opened up on them.

"Run!" he yelled to her as he took off for her door. She quickly passed him, but he dug in for a burst of speed and they both hit the stairs at around the same time.

Grissom looked at her as he was huffing and puffing and swearing he'd never run on a full stomach again. Sara was much more composed. She was wringing out her hair, and Grissom couldn't help but notice how her wet shirt was nicely plastered to her body. Her pants were equally wet and equally revealing; leaving very little for the imagination.

She seemed to give him a once over as she came over to him. "Okay, so we're soaked. I'm sorry about that."

"It's all right," he said, his breathing returning to normal.

"Your hair curls when it's wet," she said, staring into his eyes.

"So does yours," he said as he reached out to lift a damp tendril from across her face.

For as cold and wet as they were, the heat from his hand on her face was enough to ignite the chemistry that had been brewing between them since they'd stared at the stars almost a week ago. Grissom ran his knuckles across her cheek, and reached around to run his fingers through the damp hair at the nape of her neck. He stepped closer to her, his attention solely focused on her eyes and her face. He wanted to kiss her. He wanted nothing more than to draw her into him, tilt his head down, and kiss her until he died from it.

So that's exactly what he did. And in doing so, he lost himself in it.

Somehow they'd made it inside to the sofa. Somehow he'd removed his shirt, and hers had disappeared as well, along with her bra. He had her pressed beneath him on her sofa, his face buried in her neck and her hands running along his back. That sweet scent he smelled earlier was everywhere; he was drowning in it. And she was lost to him, arching her body closer to his, her hips pushed firmly against him.

Reality was making him focus; his wet jeans were becoming incredibly uncomfortable.

"We're ruining your couch," he said in her ear, taking the time to give it a little nibble.

She purred quietly and said, "Who cares…"

"Our clothes are soaked, you know," he said again, with another nibble.

"Then let's take them off," she said brazenly, reaching for his jeans.

Grissom paused. Thoughts of bedpost notches and abandonment flashed into his mind.

"Sara, I… uh… don't know about that."

She froze and looked at him curiously.

"I just… well, maybe we shouldn't do something we'll regret later."

Now she looked confused, and hurt.

"I mean, I don't want you to think that I'm here just so that I… that we… I mean…I'm sorry… I shouldn't have…" God, he was not good with things like this at all.

She smiled. "You don't want this to be a one-night stand, is that what you're trying to say?"

Grissom sighed in relief. "Yes."

"Well, I should probably be offended that you'd think that of me, but I'm not, because I know enough about you to know you are sweet, and clueless, and wouldn't say that unless you meant it in a positive way."

Now it was Grissom's turn to look confused. And Sara smiled at his confusion.

"Look, I don't go around jumping every forensic entomologist that walks through my door, okay? Nor do I go inviting these strange entomologists I met a week ago into my apartment. I don't do this type of thing often. To be honest, I don't do this type of thing at all. I don't have time. I'm sure you can relate. Now does that help spell things out for you, or do I need to dumb it down some more?"

She reached her hand up to his chest, and ran a fingernail down his breastbone to his navel. She placed two fingers on his stomach, and began tracing designs back and forth, moving slightly lower on each pass.

Grissom clenched his teeth at the sensation.

"So," she purred, "can I help you out of those jeans, or what?"

She did, and they wound up naked in her bed, his mouth leisurely exploring her body. She was gorgeous, and he wanted nothing more than to taste her, claim her, to make her his own.

She stopped him before he reached his goal, shifting away from him. "Oh no," she said huskily. "You first." She rolled out from under him slowly, sensually, and began her own exploration of him. It was overwhelming, and Grissom's fears fought with the sensations cascading over him. He knew where she was headed, and it had been an extremely long time since anyone had done this for him. Would she be… _impressed_ with him? Insecurities began to build.

Until she started stroking him, gently running her fingers up, then down… up, then down. He was lost after that, and didn't care what the hell she thought, as long as she continued with whatever it was she was doing. Her lips were inches, scant _inches_, from Ground Zero when a loud _beep-beep-beep-_ing interrupted her.

"No," she groaned into his thigh. "I'm _busy, _dammit! I've got another hour, at least!"

The beeping silenced, but then started up again. Sara sighed as she slid her entire body up against him to give him a quick kiss on the lips. She then leaned over to her nightstand, and reached for the offending pager. From that day forward, Grissom would despise the horrid things.

Sara looked down at it and sighed. "It's work. Reads 911 at the end. This is Charles's way of saying it's important. Most likely something happened and they need me early. I've gotta call in, and I'm going to have to go."

She looked down at him, straddling herself across his waist, and he was sure the look of lust and desperation he felt was clearly evident. Her eyes melted with desire and she leaned into him, meeting his lips in a passionate kiss. He wrapped his arms around her, caressing her back.

"Don't go."

"I have to."

"I know. But I don't want you to."

He let her go, admiring the view of her departure. When she was gone, he leaned back with a heavy, frustrated sigh. She was incredible, and damn the stupid bozo who had gone and committed some lame-ass crime right in the middle of one of the best damn moments of his life. Grissom smacked his hands into his forehead in frustration. _Why? C'mon God, why now? Couldn't you have at least waited fifteen minutes?_

When he lifted his hands, Sara was standing in the bedroom doorway, clad in her terrycloth robe. "Charles wants to talk to you. It's a DB, and apparently it's been there a while. He wants you to come with me to process it, and he needs you to approve it with your boss."

oooooooooooooooooooooo

A knock on the doorway startled Grissom out of his memories.

"Earth to Grissom. Anyone home?" Sara was standing in the doorway, a moderately frustrated expression on her face. "I told Mike we're on our break. I don't know what you have in mind for dinner, as the only places around here are McDonalds, a Chinese place, and the casino."

"There isn't anything decent around here? Maybe a nice Italian place?" Grissom had thought about this previously. Pasta was vegetarian. It was part of his original plan – to take her out to a nice Italian restaurant in the area first. Italian restaurants were romantic.

"The casino kills most of the other businesses in the area, believe it or not. We need to go there anyways to talk with Jon about pulling employee records for us, so we might as well just go."

"Not a bad idea," Grissom said. "I was looking forward to some spaghetti, though. Maybe… another time?" That's as close as he could come to asking her on a date. Just saying that was making his head spin.

Sara's face ran through a series of emotions. Confusion, anger, hurt, fear – really, it was fascinating to watch, and Grissom smiled at her throughout the whole episode. She finally settled on complacency. Grissom could almost hear her deciding to take a 'wait and see' approach.

"Maybe," she said simply. And Grissom's heart cheered.

…_continued next chapter ->_


	12. part2chap5

… _part 2, chapter 5 …_

Sara was studying him quietly as he finished the last bite of his tuna sandwich. He didn't have a very good grasp on what she was thinking, but her demeanor towards him had changed. They'd driven over in silence, in her car, and she had said little while eating her soup and salad.

Grissom smiled at her, swallowing the last of his meal. "So," he said, "shall we go hunt down Northwind, or do you have something else in mind?"

"No, we can go stop by and see if he's in. If not, there are some other people we can ask for help. But, given the time, he should be there, stuffing his face."

"Ok. You lead the way."

Grissom left the money for their meal, along with a reasonable tip, and the two of them walked out of Fidelia's together. Sara led him past that large backlit mountain-thing into another lounge area. She walked to a door marked 'Employees Only' and swiped a key card Grissom wasn't aware she had.

She then led him through another maze of doors and hallways, similar to her lab. They came to a door with a small plate that read 'Northwind, Jonathan'. They both peeked through the window, and Jon was indeed inside, munching away on what appeared to be the largest sub sandwich that Grissom had ever seen.

Sara knocked before turning the doorknob. "Jon, can we bother you for a sec?"

"Mmm... shure. Whazzup?" Jon clearly did not have issues with talking while eating. He did finally swallow and clear his throat with a swig from the soda bottle on his desk.

"We need you to run a check against all the employees here at the Sun. We're looking for people who have worked or lived in Las Vegas within the past few months. Our only connection between the murder in Vegas and the murders here is the casinos."

"True. I had assumed it was a guest, but you're right. It could be an employee. We do background checks on everyone who works here, but if this guy doesn't have a record, nothing suspicious would have shown up."

Grissom spoke up. "Does this casino employ subcontractors? Perhaps for food service or repairs?"

"I'm pretty sure we do," Jon replied. "I'll see if I can get a list of those as well, but it'll take a bit longer. We don't keep all the subcontractors' employee information in our database. I'd have to request that from the contractor themselves." Jon frowned. "That might pose a problem if we're to keep this low-profile. But you're right; some of those folks have access to a lot of the things back here that the regular guests do not. I'll have to run it by a few people, but I'll see what I can do."

"Anything you can find is appreciated, Jon. Give us a call when you have something." Sara grinned at him, her tone lightly flirtatious.

Jon gave her a wink, and a two-fingered salute. "Aye-aye, babe."

Grissom and Sara left, her leading him back through the maze of hallways.

"He _so_ reminds me of Brass," she quietly murmured to herself with a smile.

"I don't see it," Grissom replied.

"Oh c'mon. If Brass had a son, he'd be just like that. You haven't seen him grill a suspect yet. It's like Brass on a sugar high."

"You miss him," Grissom said quietly.

Sara sighed. "Yes, I do. He… watched out for me."

"He misses you too, Sara."

"Yeah, I'm sure he does," she said bitterly. "But he's there and I'm here, and that's the way things have to be."

Grissom said nothing, not wanting to start another argument with her. And really, she brought it up. What's with that? Did she want to fight with him?

They finally walked through a large set of doors, and they were in the parking garage again.

"How did you learn your way around this maze?" Grissom asked.

"I spent three nights getting lost. Then I asked Jon to show me around. He told me a couple of tricks about the layout, and after that it was pretty easy. There's a trick to how they built this place. Specifically, if you worked there and you knew the secret, you'd be fine. But if you were an outsider, and somehow found your way into the heart of the casino, you'd be totally lost."

"So, what's the trick?"

"Can't tell you."

"Oh? Why not?"

"Hello… it's a secret." And with a devilish smile, Sara opened the door to her car and hopped inside. With a click, she unlocked the passenger side door, and Grissom scrunched down into her tiny little car. They drove back to the state police barracks the same way they had come, in silence.

Once they arrived, Sara led him to Dr. Nave's office. She stood in the doorway and knocked to get Nave's attention. Flashbacks of her doing the same outside his office fluttered through Grissom's mind. Yup, he definitely did not like her working here. She should be knocking on _his_ doorway, not this bozo's.

"Mike? We met with Detective Northwind at the Sun after our break. He's going to query his employee database, but he said he might have some trouble looking into subcontractors. I know they want to keep this quiet, but is there anything you can do to have them expedite this? We need those names."

"I'll talk with the sheriff. If that doesn't work, I'll talk with the director. We'll get your names for you," Mike said with a smile.

"Good. We're going to go check with Tom about the photos, and then we're going to run by trace for results."

"Make sure you are off the clock and out of here by 6 a.m., Sara." Nave's voice was firm. There was a spine beneath all that psychological fluff. "You know the rules."

"Yeah," Sara muttered complacently. "I know."

Dr. Nave then focused his attention on Grissom, and the look in his eyes was somewhat disturbing. "Dr. Grissom, I'd like to speak with you once you are finished for the evening. That is, if you have the time?"

"Of course," Grissom responded politely.

"Good. I'll see you when you're finished."

Three hours later, after a visit to the morgue, complete with a rather drawn out conversation with Tom, and a disturbing visit to trace, Grissom and Sara had new photographs of the two bodies, as well as partial results from trace on the wrist swabs. The vaginal swabs results were still pending and the full results on the wrists' material would be in by the next evening's shift.

It seemed the two women were bound with a type of tape. Trace came back positive for a composite compound similar to plastic, along with traces of rubber, and an adhesive that wasn't specifically identified. A tech was searching the databases of adhesive manufacturers for the proper combination of plastic and rubber, along with the names of the adhesives used. It was their first solid clue, and both he and Sara were pleased to have made progress.

"Well," she said in a light tone as they walked back to Nave's office, "shift is over for us, and you heard – no overtime. I'll drop you off at Mike's and I'll see you later, okay? Meet me here at four tonight and we'll go interview Diana Somers' parents. And maybe trace will have more for us by then."

They had stopped at Dr. Nave's doorway, and Grissom could tell Sara was ansty; anxious to leave. He wanted to talk to her about the past 10 hours, and explain why he was really here, but it looked like it was going to have to wait.

"Okay," he said to her retreating form as he walked into Dr. Nave's office.

Mike rose and extended his hand, and Grissom shook it politely.

"Please, have a seat," Mike said with a gesture to the chair.

Grissom sat. He'd been to a therapist before, years ago. The program was the predecessor to P.E.A.P counseling today, and when he was coroner, it was mandatory for him to go once a year to ensure the stress of working with the dead wasn't driving him insane. _Please._ Grissom had pointed out each year that dealing with the dead was a hell of a lot easier than dealing with the living, and each time the therapist would look at him strangely and make cryptic notes in his notepad.

Michael Nave was not a state-mandated therapist, but he radiated the same calm demeanor as that old fart back in L.A. Grissom wasn't about to have a "Let's Share" session with this guy.

"So," Dr. Nave began, "I'd like to talk about Sara for a moment, if you don't mind. Off the record."

_Okay, so this isn't about me. This is about Sara and her reacting to cases again._

"What would you like to discuss?" Grissom asked in a reserved tone. He wasn't about to do this guy any favors.

"I'd like to know if you had observed her sensitivity to some of the crimes, particularly those that involve women as the victims."

Grissom was torn, but he answered honestly. "Yes, I have."

"And have you noticed that she seems to share a common bond with these women, almost as if she were putting herself in their place?"

"Yes, I have." Grissom scowled slightly, wondering where this was going.

"Sara has presented herself as a quite competent forensics investigator; I can assure you of that. I'm incredibly pleased with her work thus far. I'm not trying to slander her or her reputation, if that's what you're thinking."

That's exactly what Grissom was thinking. "Then may I ask why you are asking these questions?"

"I believe Sara is empathic."

Grissom agreed. "Yes, Sara does feel a great deal of empathy for the victims."

"Yes, but this isn't about her feeling sorry for what happened. She actually feels the victim's pain because she is empathic with them." Mike sighed. "I can see I'm not describing this correctly. This isn't a mainstream condition, so you aren't going to see a lot of scientific documentation on this. But let me try to explain." Mike shifted in his chair, leaning back to get more comfortable.

"People who are empathic sense the feelings of others. To some degree, they sense their thoughts, but what I'm describing isn't telepathy. An empathic person can tell that you're sad, but not the reason why. Well, that's not entirely true. Those at a very high level can do this, but that is extremely rare and not as clearly documented as the lower levels of empathy. Most of us have some degree of empathic ability, especially with those we care deeply about, or those we spend a great deal of time with. Then there are people like Sara. These people can sense the emotions of everyone around them. They 'feel' the emotions of others. Of family members, friends, and complete strangers. It's more like they read emotions rather than feel them, but the distinction can get blurred. In Sara's case, if a stranger has something in common with Sara, something Sara can relate to, the 'feeling' she reads is stronger."

Grissom was frowning visibly. _This is bullshit._

"I can see you disagree. But I can assure you, I've seen this ability first hand. It does exist in some people. Some consider it a genetic mutation, as it seems to run in family lines. And, as you can imagine, it presents itself in women much more frequently than in men."

Grissom wasn't convinced. This guy probably believed in psychics and all that other alternative medicine voodoo that he, as a scientist, did _not _believe in.

"Dr. Grissom," Mike said firmly, "I asked to speak with you because I strongly believe Sara is a medium to higher level empath. I haven't worked with her long enough to judge accurately, so I wanted to ask you about her past history with her cases. If she is empathic, she should attend counseling that will help her deal with her ability. If controlled properly, it could be a great asset to her career."

Grissom's frown deepened. "I'm not going to deny that Sara has gotten emotionally involved in some of her cases. I personally felt that in some instances it helped her focus. In others, it was a distraction for her. Overall, she was, and still is, an excellent criminalist. However, I can't readily accept that she's some type of psychic."

Dr. Nave spoke quickly. "Did she ever mention that she felt the victim's pain? The victim's fear or sorrow? Did you ever see her in a situation where she believed she _was_ the victim?"

Sara's conversation from years ago came to the forefront of Grissom's mind. She had asked him to sleep with her, in order to be there when she apparently woke from hearing a victim's screams in her dreams. Grissom's frown faded into a more melancholy expression.

"She did mention she heard a victim's screams in her dreams," Grissom admitted grudgingly.

Nave sighed. "Then it is probable. I'm not sure how to talk to her about this, but for her own safety she should know what she is. There's help she can get to control her abilities. Did she have a boyfriend or significant other in Las Vegas?"

Awkward territory. "She did at one time, but I believe it ended a couple years ago."

"Forgive me for prying, but was it serious? Did it end badly? Sara seems to be running from something, and to be honest, I am surprised she accepted this position. It is mostly an internship, but a friend of the department arranged for it to be converted into a temporary re-assignment for her. I assure you, I am not disappointed in the arrangement, but I _am_ curious as to why she's here."

Grissom was quiet for a moment, mulling over this new information, before he answered, "I can't say whether her relationship with that man was serious or not. Nor am I aware of her personal reasons for accepting this position. Perhaps it would be best to ask her these questions."

"True, true. Forgive me, I don't mean to sound callous. It's just … well, I would feel more comfortable supervising her if I knew more about her. It's clear she is very devoted to her career, a true workaholic if I ever saw one. And she's extremely intelligent, and, if you'll pardon my candor, quite attractive. Some young man should have come along and swept her off her feet years ago. I can't help but think that something's happened with her along those lines, and now she's burying herself in her work. " Dr. Nave sighed heavily. "Plus, if she is empathic, she'll need to overcome whatever it is that she's avoiding. I was just hoping you might be able to shed some light on the subject."

"I'm afraid you'll need to speak with Sara directly about that," Grissom stated simply as he tried to maintain control of his temper. The nerve of this guy! To ask him personal questions about Sara… what gave him the right? And this empathic crap was just that… pure crap.

"Yes, yes. Well, I do appreciate you speaking with me. It substantiates my suspicions, and I will have to approach this subject with Sara at some time. And, on behalf of the state, we are delighted to have you here working with us."

"Thank you," Grissom said professionally, still controlling his ire. He stood stiffly. This conversation was over as far as he was concerned.

"Before you leave, I must ask if you have a problem with her working this case with you. She seemed to indicate earlier that she felt uncomfortable. I assured her this was normal, given the situation, and that I could assign her to another case. She was rather vehement in declining my offer, however… if you feel it would be best for her to be re-assigned, I will do so."

"I see no reason to remove Sara from this case."

"Good. Your reputation of professionalism precedes you. I'm sure once Sara overcomes the natural awkwardness of working with you again, things will run smoothly. She seemed to be much more relaxed by the end of her shift."

Grissom stared at the kiss-ass Michael Nave, his dislike for the man growing by the second. Dr. Nave stood, and again reached out to shake Grissom's hand. Grissom grudgingly complied.

"Thank you again for meeting with me. If there is anything you need, please don't hesitate to ask."

Grissom nodded, and turned to walk towards the door. A mental light bulb went on in his head, and he faced Dr. Nave and asked, "Is it possible for me to get Sara's work and cell phone numbers? We were quite busy tonight, and I forgot to ask her."

"Certainly, I have them here." And Grissom grinned politely as Dr. Nave handed him a slip of paper with Sara's work number, her new cell phone number, and her home number and address.

"Thank you," Grissom said, sincerely this time. "Thank you very much."

oooooooooooooooooooooo

Gil sat on his bed in his hotel room, staring at the beige telephone sitting two feet away from him on the nightstand.

He wanted to call her. He did. He wanted to tell her that her boss was a lunatic, and that he really came here to see her and convince her to come home. And after talking to Michael Nave, he was positive she needed to come home. She couldn't, _couldn't_ stay here.

Warrick's words were his lifeline. "_At least you know how she feels… we all knew… she wore her heart on her sleeve for everyone to see…_"

No one doubted that she would return. They had faith in her feelings for him, and they had faith in him to do… well, whatever it was that he was supposed to do, in order to bring her home. His team; his friends; were counting on him because they had faith.

His own faith was wavering. She wasn't happy to see him. She seemed to want nothing more than to pick fights with him. And his skills in rectifying his past mistakes were weak at best. And of course, there was some creepy bastard out there raping and murdering women, so catching him had to be their number one priority.

Grissom sighed and continued to stare at the phone, lost in his own remorse. A moment later, much to his surprise, it rang.

"Hello?"

"Gil! It's Jim. I tried your cell phone earlier but it wasn't going through. You should check it – maybe it's dead. How are things going?"

"It's okay. We haven't got much on the case; we're waiting on trace and getting information back from the casino. It seems like the three are connected, though. These two were almost carbon copies of the one we found."

"Uh, Gil, that wasn't what I meant. How is Sara? How's she look? How's she doing?"

"She's… she's fine, Jim."

"Uh oh. That didn't sound so good."

Grissom sighed into the phone. "She isn't very happy to see me."

"Well, probably not. Have you told her why you're _really_ there? Have you said anything to her at all?"

"Uh… not yet."

"Well, maybe the two of you should sit down and have a nice long chat. A little groveling on your part wouldn't hurt, either."

"I know."

"Well, we're all thinking about you here. I'm calling because Ecklie wants to know why you haven't checked in yet, so you'd better give him a call."

"I will. How are things back there? How is everyone doing?"

"We're all fine. Sofia runs a tight ship, Gil. She really is good. Brown is tired, but he's getting it done. Catherine and Stokes are fine. And Sanders must be bored, or over his depression, or something, because he's been working up a storm. He's here almost all the time, and he's happy about it."

Gil felt a pang. Clearly his presence at the lab wasn't as critical as he would have liked. Still, it was his job, and he knew Ecklie wouldn't get rid of him. "Maybe I make him nervous," Gil replied half-heartedly.

"Gil, you make everybody nervous. But we like ya anyways. Take care and hurry home. Bring our gal back with you, too."

"Wish me luck, Jim. I need it."

"You've got it. Take care."

"Later."

Gil hung up the phone and settled in for the night. Tomorrow was another day.

oooooooooooooooooooooo

About 1200 miles away, Jim Brass stared dejectedly at his own phone. It had been a long night, and he was hoping for a bit of good news from Grissom. No such luck. A voice from the doorway broke the silence. "How is he? And how is she?"

"He's freaking," Brass blurted, not consciously realizing who he was talking to. "He won't admit it, but you can hear it in his voice. He said she's not happy to see him. My guess is she's ripping pissed that he's there."

"You're probably right."

"They haven't solved the case yet, but he thinks it does tie in with the Walker case we had earlier this year."

"The two of them will figure it out. They're good."

"Yeah, just as long as they don't kill each other first."

"Hey, you know how it is. Sometimes the road to happiness has a few speed bumps."

"This would classify as one hell of a speed bump." Brass paused. "What's it to you, anyways?"

Sofia shrugged. "Living vicariously through others? A woman's love of fairy tale romance? Pure, morbid curiosity? Pick whichever one you like."

Brass eyed her strangely as she turned from his doorway and walked towards one of the interrogation rooms down the hall.

…_continued next chapter ->_


	13. part2chap6

… _part 2, chapter 6 …_

Grissom stood outside in the parking lot, leaning against his rental car, waiting for Sara to arrive. He had no desire to participate in another conversation with Dr. Nave, nor Tom the Overweight Assistant Coroner. The less time he spent with them, the better. So he was early, and he was waiting. At least the weather was acceptable. Fall was coming, and there was a slight chill in the September afternoon air. It was refreshing.

After five minutes or so, Sara's car pulled into the parking lot. She drove past him slowly, and parked two spots down.

"Hey," she called softly to him, "you're early."

"So are you. Are we all set to go?"

"I need to clock in, and check in with Mike. Give me five minutes, okay?"

"I'll be here," he said quietly.

She returned shortly, and he gestured to his car. "Mind if I drive this time?"

"Do you know where you're going?"

"No, but that's what the GPS is for."

Sara paused before saying, "Okay, just don't get us lost."

He smiled as she climbed into the car. She entered in the address, and they drove for about fifteen minutes, arriving in an urban sprawl area of connected row homes and small multi-family houses.

Their destination was modest, painted light blue with white trim. Diana Somers' parents lived on the first floor of the two-story home.

Sara knocked firmly as Grissom stood behind her. After two minutes, she knocked again. An elderly woman appeared a minute later, clad in a faded flowered housedress. Her husband stood behind her, thin and bald, sporting a faded shirt and 1970's polyester pants. Both shared that look of those who had lost someone they loved due to unexpected tragedy.

"Hello Mrs. Somers," Sara said politely in her professional voice. "I'm Sara Sidle from the crime lab, and this is my associate, Gil Grissom. We'd like to speak with you a little more about your daughter, Diana."

Mrs. Somers sighed heavily, her eyes moist. "Yes, you called earlier. Please come in." Mr. Somers scowled at Grissom as he entered. _Hey, what did I do?_

They settled in the living room, Mrs. Somers sitting on the old, faded velour sofa, with her husband possessively at her side. He continued to scowl.

"Thank you for seeing us," Grissom said. "We'd like to learn more about your daughter's friendship with Maria. Did they spend a lot of time together?"

"Yes," the woman replied, her hand reaching instinctively for her husband's. The elderly man took it and held it gently, supportively. The correspondence between the two was touching, but Grissom seemed to be the only one that noticed it. "Maria and Diana were friends from grade school. They both went their different ways after they graduated, but Maria returned to the area a few years ago, and she and Diana became close again."

"Did they spend a lot of their time at the Mohegan Sun?" Sara asked.

"Yes, they did. They both liked to go to the free shows in the Wolf Den, and they liked to get coffees from Starbucks and people-watch for a while. Diana loved the doughnuts there, too. Krispy Kremes. She probably ate more than she should, but they were a treat for her. Maria would gamble a lot; she was always lucky with the slots. Diana was never really lucky like that." Mrs. Somers' voice trailed off, her lower lip trembling. Mr. Somers' grip on his wife's hand increased slightly.

"Why are you asking us more questions?" he asked defensively. "We spoke with you folks before. Why aren't you out there arresting the creep who did this to our daughter?"

"Sir," Grissom replied calmly, "you can rest assured that we are doing everything we can. This is why we are here; we need a little more information."

"Well, quit beating around the bush and tell us what you need so you can be on your way. You're upsetting my wife."

Clearly it was him they were upsetting, and not his wife, but both Grissom and Sara had enough experience to realize they'd better wrap this up quickly.

"Mr. Somers, sir," Sara said calmly, "we're trying to determine why your daughter would rent a room at the Mohegan Sun, not even a week after her friend's death."

"Honestly," Mrs. Somers murmured, breaking her silence, "we don't know. Diana was a bank teller. She didn't make much money, and she wasn't the rowdy type. More of the quiet bookworm. When she and Maria got together, they would have a good time, but never anything wild. We liked them together because Maria got Diana out of the house; into the world."

"What did Maria do for a living?" Grissom asked.

"Oh, Maria did lots of things. She always had something going on. Her family has a lot more money than ours, so Maria could always count on them if things got tough. But she usually found a way to make ends meet on her own."

Mr. Somers interjected, "Recently she won it big at the Sun. Hence her comp'ed room and all. She hit one of those multi-million slot things, the ones with the numbers that are always changing. She won… what, $50,000?"

"She was always lucky like that," Mrs. Somers continued. "I can't begin to imagine what she did to cause her luck to change."

"Who will inherit Maria's winnings?" Sara asked pointedly. It was obvious she was thinking someone murdered Maria for the money.

"I don't know child, but her family was already loaded. And I don't think there was a man in her life."

"Wait, Celia…" Mr. Somers said, turning to his wife sharply. "Diana mentioned that boy they met. What was his name? Donald?"

"Oh," she replied softly, "I can't remember. Maybe it was Donald." Mrs. Somers turned and faced both Grissom and Sara. "Diana didn't talk much about what she and Maria did with regards to their men, I'm afraid."

Sara's cell phone chirped, interrupting the conversation. She looked down and frowned. "I'm sorry," she said. "I have to take this call. We appreciate your time, and if you can think of any reason why Diana might have wanted a room at the Sun, please let us know." She handed them a small generic business card for her lab, with her name and work number written in pen beneath the printed text. Mr. Somers took the card from her and stared at the small black writing. Grissom wondered if he could read it, or if his eyes were too far gone.

Sara stepped towards the door as Grissom thanked the grief-laden couple for speaking with them, assuring them that they'd be the first to know if any new information was found. These things were always difficult, but he always tried his best to be properly sympathetic and professional.

The old wooden door shut behind them as Sara listened intently on the phone. She flipped it closed with a soft "dammit".

"What's up?" he asked her.

"I'll tell you in the car," she said, her voice strained.

He hurried to his rental, and turned the car over just as Sara opened the passenger side door. "We've got another one," she replied.

Grissom looked at her in surprise, "Another murder?"

"At the Best Western, right next to the Mohegan Sun."

Grissom sighed. "Do you want to go back to the lab first? Get your kit?"

"No, Mike is going to meet us there, and he'll bring my kit for me. It gets worse, Grissom."

"What?"

"The media's there; it isn't on the casino's property. And they know it's a serial, too. Some local cop on the scene was brilliant enough to say 'Another one' within media earshot."

Grissom scowled. The media was not his favorite entity, and he suspected that they'd be just as bad here as they were back home.

"Sooner or later," she said with a scowl, "they're going to find out about you, too. We'll be lucky if this doesn't hit the national news."

They both stared at one another, each scowling in dismay. If the media learned about Grissom working at the Vegas Crime Lab, they'd learn about Sara Sidle, who left said Crime Lab to come here, and how they were now working together again. This had interesting news side-story written all over it, and they both knew it. There would be requests for interviews, and questions of why she left, and how they both felt about working together again. They hadn't even discussed this with each other, and now the media was going to try to put their lives on the 11 o'clock news for everyone to see.

Sara stared out the window in silence while Grissom drove them back towards the casino.

oooooooooooooooooooooo

Multiple TV vans interspersed with police cruisers and rescue vehicles at the entrance to the Best Western. Various well-dressed media were hovering like the vultures they were. Grissom pulled around the side of the building, at Sara's request. Sara had removed her jacket, and Grissom his vest; both wishing to appear like normal hotel guests. They both had their IDs, so they could cross the crime scene line at the front door, but Sara was hoping to sneak in through the side.

"We're here," she said softly into her phone. She was talking with Nave again, having called him when they were close to the hotel. She listened for a moment before stating, "Okay, we'll see you there." She ended the call, and turned to Grissom. "Mike's going to let us in through the side door and lead us to the scene. He realizes that having you here is 'intriguing' and he wants to keep you out of the eyes of the press. He shares the same love for the media that we do."

"That's good to hear," Grissom replied sincerely as he parked the car.

"They were all over him years ago," she said as she climbed out of the car.

Grissom reached for his kit, keeping the LVFD label turned towards his leg. No need to advertise. "Oh?" he asked softly, curious as to why the media would be interested in a psychologist.

"I can tell you more about it later, but in short, his wife was attacked and murdered by some really violent criminal. She was on some special forensics team, and something went bad during an interrogation, and the guy went for her, cuffed and all. Somehow he got her, and snapped her neck, killing her instantly. It was over before the cops in the room could even blink." The two of them were walking side-by-side to a non-descript door. "Mike's never talked to me about it, but a couple of the other criminalists filled me in when I started. It's why he left counseling, and went into law enforcement. He understands why it happened, but he wants to make sure that it never happens again."

oooooooooooooooooooooo

Two hours later, they had finished processing the scene. Mike had instructed them on what he wanted, but only briefly. He left to contend with the media while the two of them did their job.

Tom had come to collect the body, and the three of them shared a 'Let's Be Baffled' moment as they examined their latest victim. She matched the others exactly except for the letter 'A' carved on their chest. This time, it was an 'L'. It was clearly a cursive L, and an elegant one at that.

On the drive back to the lab, Sara was agitated. "Who is this asshole? And what's with the damn 'L'? Is this guy ripping on Laverne and Shirley? He'd better not. I liked that show."

_Uh... whatever_. "The letter must mean something significant to our killer."

"Obviously," she snarled. "Anyways, we've got to run these prints first. I can't believe this woman's name is Mary Doe. That's the phoniest name I've ever heard."

Sara was obviously in her rant mode, and Grissom wasn't in the mood to listen to her griping. This scene was almost a mirror of the one back in Vegas, and the reality of human nature was depressing the hell out of him. It never left the back of his mind that any of his friends could one day be a victim. Sara's doppelganger and Nick's horrific experience were concrete evidence of that.

"How fast are your techs?" he asked, redirecting the subject as he turned down the back road to the station.

"One older woman, Janine, is a wiz. Really. She almost puts Greg to shame."

"Almost?"

"Almost. Greg is really very bright, Grissom. You should give him a little more credit."

"I give him plenty of credit. But he needs to focus. He gets distracted easily and misses things. He doesn't take the time to think about what needs to be done."

"He's new to being a CSI. Cut him some slack."

"He isn't that new, Sara."

"And he isn't that experienced, either. He tries, and he's good, at least when you aren't hovering over him like some CSI Emperor."

"I do not hover."

"You do. He wants nothing more than your acceptance, yet you constantly harp on him. Well, you did when I was there. I have no idea what you do now."

"He needs to _learn_, Sara."

"Then teach him."

"That was _your _job."

"No, it wasn't _my job_. I was a CSI: Level 3, and nothing more than that. I was not a supervisor, or a Lead CSI, or even your second in command."

This was interesting. "Did you want to be a supervisor?" Grissom asked.

"No."

He paused as her later words registered. "I don't have a 'second in command'."

Sara barked in laughter. "Oh, so then what did you call Catherine when she worked for you and what do you call Sofia now? Personal assistant?" Sara's voice was dripping venom again.

"What's this about? Is this about Nick and the promotion thing? That was over a year ago."

Sara growled angrily to herself in frustration. With a sigh she said, "You're right. It was a long time ago and I don't want to discuss this anymore. The point of this conversation is that there is a decent tech in my lab, and we'll hand off what we have to her. End of conversation."

This was fine by Grissom, as he was angry and confused. What was she getting at? Did she leave because he didn't promote her? He knew she was upset about it at the time, but she _got over it._ Or did she just want to fight with him, and make him miserable? That was certainly what it felt like right now; she'd been condescending to him since he'd arrived.

They both entered the lab in silence, each silently fuming at the other.

oooooooooooooooooooooo

Once inside the lab, the ever-cheerful Dr. Nave informed them that they had gotten full results back from trace from the night before. There was no residue for lambskin or latex on either Diana Somers or Maria Sanchez. This spiraled Sara's already foul mood downward, and Grissom knew enough to keep out of her way.

The tape results were better, but still inconclusive. Lab results had narrowed it down to four kinds of utility tape. Two were specific to electrical wiring, the third was more commonly used in newer HVAC ductwork, and the fourth was a general utility tape. The mysterious third criminalist who was working this case had ordered samples of all four, set to arrive tomorrow at noon via overnight express shipping.

Grissom wanted to investigate the tool used to deliver the fatal cut, and to carve the mysterious letters on the victims. Determining that might narrow down the field of potential suspects. He would work this, while Sara reviewed the list of Mohegan Sun employees with ties to Las Vegas. It was longer than expected, as Jon Northwind had been thorough. The list had employees who worked in Vegas, lived in Vegas, or had relatives in Vegas.

Grissom's research on the murder weapon was successful, but it took most of the evening, and he had to improvise. He missed the resources of his lab back home.

After close examination, he concluded the blade wasn't a scalpel or surgical tool. The actual cuts were too ragged. However, they were too smooth to be a kitchen knife or any other household knife. This, combined with the information about the wire, sent him on a quest for razor blades, specifically those used in utility knives. After experimenting with some ham hocks from the local grocery store, and a few common utility knives from the nearby Home Depot, he was almost positive the blade in question was a Stanley utility knife blade. Easily purchased at the local hardware store, and used by most of the blue collar staff at a casino. As well as by some artists; his mother had a utility knife meant for slicing through sheetrock, and she swore by it for cutting canvas. She claimed the artist knives dulled too easily, and were too expensive to replace.

He worked alone, and drove himself to the stores and back. He presented his findings to Sara at the end of shift. She was sitting in what appeared to be an interrogation room, staring morosely at papers scattered across the table in front of her. Her agitation from earlier had faded, as had his, and Grissom sensed it was safe to approach.

"The murder weapon was most likely a Stanley utility knife," he said simply, handing the preliminary documentation to her. "Our perp has access to utility tape and utility knives. Right now, I'm leaning towards electrician, but it could be any of the trades. Plumber, carpenter, tin-knocker, HVAC…"

"That narrows the field," she said sarcastically. "Well wait, maybe it does. We could check with Jon on which trades are most prevalent at the Sun. I don't see them having a real need for carpenters right now." She paused. "It could be a maintenance guy, too. Like a general handyman. I would assume they'd have access to most of the casino. Oh, our latest vic's name is not Mary Doe. It's Kathleen Umbridge. She came up right away in COTIS; she has priors." Sara paused. "She's been arrested for two separate counts of prostitution."

"So she was turning a trick when things got ugly," he replied with a grimace.

"Could be a copycat."

"I thought it was being kept quiet."

"True. That would make our copycat someone on the inside, and this doesn't have that type of feel. So we'll have to assume it's our killer again."

"Probable. Did you get the list of sub-contractors from Northwind yet?"

"Nope. I'm sure he was holding back, but now that the media is on to this, he might be a little more aggressive. I'll have him focus on the maintenance staff and those trades that have full access to the underbelly of the casino. Maybe that will turn up something." She frowned. "You know, this is going to be bad publicity for the Sun. The state requires the department to release information to the press, but only if they ask."

"Of course, they asked."

"Yup. They asked Mike earlier. And sure enough, on the 11 o'clock news, there was a lovely spread on the Mohegan Sun, and how two young women were found murdered there, along with footage of the Best Western and commentary on our third vic. However, luck is with us and they haven't mentioned anything about Vegas."

Grissom smiled for that small favor. "Are you finished for the evening?" he asked apprehensively. It was past 6 a.m. and he knew her shift was over.

"Yes, I was just… thinking when you walked in."

"Well, I'll see you tonight then."

"See you."

Grissom headed out the back door, walking straight into the remnants of what appeared to be a newscast. He tried to be discreet as he made his way to his car, but he didn't make it more than a few feet before a crewmember packing up the van noticed him.

Within minutes, he was cornered by the back door, the bright white light from atop the camera shining into his eyes. A cheery newswoman was holding a microphone under his nose, asking him if he was participating in the investigation of the 'Casino Killer'. Grissom mentally sighed. Giving the murderer a title only encouraged him to attack again. Someone should educate the media on criminal profiling. They'd be horrified if they knew how many deaths they could have prevented.

"I'm afraid I cannot comment on that," he said simply, and he reached for the doorknob to return to the lab and escape the press. He'd have to notify Nave or the dayshift supervisor of the media's lurking presence, and they could run interference while he escaped to his semi-comfortable bed at the Sun.

The door pushed open quickly, and Grissom jumped back to allow room for the door to open. He hoped, no _prayed_, that this wasn't Sara. His prayers were not answered. She opened the door and walked straight into the media, where they pushed past Grissom and stuck the microphone in her face, requesting her involvement in the investigation.

"I have no comment at this time," she told the newswoman in her professional tone. But she then made the mistake of saying, "Grissom, we're needed inside." She used his name, and the newswoman immediately began writing it down in a little yellow notepad she yanked from God-Knows-Where. Sara realized her mistake instantly.

Grissom walked in front of the camera as if nothing serious had just occurred, and guided her inside. He pulled the door closed and reached underneath to the lock he knew was there. Once it was locked, he turned to her. "It's okay. They might come after us later, but we can avoid them."

She looked devastated. "Grissom, I'm so sorry. I didn't think."

"It's okay. They can't use any of that footage – it's worthless. We aren't saying a thing that's useful."

"I was so worried about this; so afraid they'd come poking around after me, asking me questions. And I just led them right to us! They can find out about my past, you know. At a minimum, they'll ask me about why I left Las Vegas. And … I can't give them that answer."

Grissom was tempted, so tempted, to ask her why she left. But he could tell it wasn't the right time, so he let it go. It was an effort, an _extreme_ effort, but he let it go.

"You won't have to answer anything. Let Dr. Nave or the other higher ups handle that."

"I'd better go and tell him what happened," she said, her head down.

He walked up to her and placed his hand on the small of her back, guiding her down the hallway towards Nave's office.

"We'll go together. It'll be all right."

…_continued next chapter ->_


	14. part2chap7

… _part 2, chapter 7 …_

Gil was fast asleep when his cell phone rang. At first, he thought he was hearing the beep of his stove's timer, and he kept wondering what he'd left cooking in the oven. But as it continued, and then ceased, only to continue again, he woke enough to realize what he was hearing.

"yeah… whut…" he said grumpily. He had called Ecklie yesterday to check in, and there was no reason for the lab to be calling him. He suspected a wrong number.

"Grissom, wake up. It's Sara."

"… Sara…?"

"Yes, it's me. Wake up."

"Gimme a minute." He sat up in bed, wiping the sleep from his eyes. The red numbers of the alarm clock read 9:07. The fog lifted slowly from his mind, and he wondered why she was calling him so early. "Is everything okay?" he asked, a hint of concern in his voice.

"Yes, it's okay. I need you to set your alarm to get up two hours earlier. I'm meeting with you at 2 p.m. in your room – we're going to take the tape that's coming in at noon and we're running an experiment. I got permission from Jon last night after you left. He said your room is exactly the same style as the room Maria Sanchez was found in."

"Sara…" he warned, "you are not going to dangle yourself from fixtures in my hotel room."

"No, he had an idea. We're going to use miracle foam. We're going to wrap it, too."

"What?"

"Miracle foam. That stuff they make beds and pillows out of. It'll leave the imprints long enough for us to make a decent comparison, it's strong, _and_ it won't hurt me. I'll wear them like bracelets. You'll see this afternoon. It's a good idea."

"I don't see this adding anything to our investigation."

"How do you know? Maybe it will. Irregardless, it's a question that needs an answer, and I'm answering it. So clean out the bathroom and your closet and I'll be there at two."

"I can't believe I'm agreeing to this."

"It'll take a half hour."

Grissom sighed into the phone.

"Oh give me a break; it isn't like I haven't been in your hotel room before."

"The last time you were in my hotel room, I was accused of murder."

"Hey pal, that wasn't my fault. You're the one that lost your kit."

Grissom smiled. She was teasing him. "You did find it for me, though."

"Yes," she said, smiling at the other end of the line, "I did."

oooooooooooooooooooooo

He sat in Sara's kitchen, clad in his boxers and a T-shirt. Sara was in her bedroom, getting ready or doing some bizarre woman thing he didn't want to think about. Charlie had informed him that their body was a bug bonanza, and he wanted Grissom's expertise on time of death determination, as well as location analysis. Grissom had called Brass, at home, and had gotten his approval to work the case.

"You might have to testify out there," Brass said. "You'll have to fly. You'll have to wear a suit."

"Yes," Grissom replied, "I know."

"You hate testifying."

"Yes, I know."

"You'll have a shitload of extra paperwork to do. You already have piles on your desk as it is." Brass was clearly baffled.

"Yes, I know."

"This is about the bugs, isn't it? You and your damn bugs. Oh hell. Have fun. But you'd better catch up on all your paperwork when you get back."

"I will. I'll keep you updated."

"Please. Spare me the details. Hey," Brass asked, changing the subject, "did they find your kit yet?"

"No, but they're working it. I haven't been charged with anything. Charlie's people are handling it."

"Good. You're staying with one, right?"

Grissom paused before answering, "Yeah."

"Well, tell him I said 'Yo' and to invest in some earplugs because you snore."

"Uh… sure. And I do not snore. How the hell would you know?"

"I've seen, no _heard,_ you napping in your office. You snore like a sonuvabitch."

"Lovely. Good-bye, Jim."

"Later, Gil."

Grissom hung up the phone.

"You snore?" Sara asked, her head peeking around the wall into the hallway.

"I doubt it. My boss is just yanking my chain." He waggled his eyebrows at her. "To date, I've never had any complaints."

She smiled at that response and disappeared back beyond the hallway. He stood and followed her, but made a detour back into the spare bedroom. After closing the door, he got changed into his jeans. He knew he was going to get filthy, and he didn't have work clothes with him. Oh well, these jeans were getting kind of ragged anyways.

He returned to the kitchen to find Sara clad in a similar outfit of jeans and a T-shirt. She was ready to go.

"Is it still raining?" he asked her.

"No, those types of storms pass through really quickly. Isolated cells. And where we're going, it hasn't rained for days."

"You watch The Weather Channel."

"Yes, but it's getting old. I need background noise."

"Try a police scanner."

"Really?"

"Yeah. Excellent for background noise and you'll know when you're going to get called out before the phone actually rings."

She mulled that over as she led him outside and around the back of her condominium to a small sky blue Honda Civic. "It isn't much," she said, "but it runs."

"Hey, that's all that matters."

They drove for a while, across the bridge and past the suburbs into a remote wooded area.

"I'm glad you know where we're going," he told her as they pulled onto a dirt road.

"We've been called out here before. This is state land, and for some reason, the baddies like to dump bodies out here."

She pulled up next to a tan Ford Taurus, and parked. Grissom got out as she went around to the truck. He was surprised when she handed him a kit, most likely her spare.

"Here. It isn't yours, but it should have what you need."

"Sara… thanks."

"No problem."

They walked side-by-side through the woods, each carrying their kits in their right hand. After a few minutes, they ran into Charlie, along with two different policemen and the plainclothes Detective MacKenzie, who was supposed to be working on Grissom's missing gun. Grissom and the good detective shared a testosterone moment before Charlie intervened.

"Gil! Sara!" Charlie walked briskly towards both of them, his exuberant energy overflowing. Charlie never was one to pass up on grand gestures. "So glad you could come, Gil. It's pretty gruesome, but I know you like that kind of thing. Sara, you can either help him or work the perimeter."

"I'll go with the good Doctor here… see him work his magic with his bugs."

"It's pretty nasty, Sara, so if you want to switch, just let me know."

"Okay, we'll see."

One of the two cops led them past a copse of trees to a clearing. From twenty feet away, Grissom could see the massive swarm around the body. A spotlight was illuminating the scene, and the moths fluttering near it created weird shadows along the grass. And the smell was overwhelming. They were downwind.

"Uhlgk," Sara gagged. "Forgive me, but maybe I will do the perimeter."

"Up to you," he said as he approached the body in anticipation. _Hello, darlings. How are you this evening?_

Sara must have noticed the goofy expression on his face. "You're looking forward to this. The smell is God-awful and there are zillions of creepy-crawlies everywhere, and you _want _to go over there."

"What can I say? I like bugs."

She smiled coyly at him. "Have fun, Doctor Bugman. I'll be waiting for you when you're finished."

Grissom spent the next hour collecting specimen after specimen. Charlie came by to assist him, but Grissom shooed him away. The coroner came to collect the body just as Grissom was finishing up. It was always fascinating, the last cycle of death. And some of the bugs were different than what he was used to, so he collected them just for analysis purposes. The woods on the outskirts of the Bay Area were not the hills and sandy valleys of Vegas. It was all utterly fascinating.

When he'd finished, he had used all the specimen holders that he could get his hands on. He had a plethora of fluttering, crawling and buzzing bugs, and he couldn't wait to take them to Charlie's lab to study them. His happiness was clearly evident in the huge grin on his face. _This is a helluva day._

Sara and Charlie were waiting for him, both leaning against the Taurus and chattering intently to each other. Their conversation ceased as he approached. _Ah, talking about me, are we?_

"Hi, Gil," Charlie said with much less drama than his earlier greeting. "You ready to head back to the lab?"

"Yup," he said happily, lifting the kit and the small cardboard box overloaded with small plastic containers.

"Did you collect _every_ damn bug that was out there?" Sara asked incredulously.

"Nope, I left some for later," he said with a smile.

Sara rolled her eyes and shot Charlie an '_Is he serious?_' look. Charlie shook his head. _I'm not really sure._

"So, can we go?" Grissom asked impatiently.

"Uh… where are you going to put those things?"

"In the car."

"Oh no. Not my car. You can ride with the boss." And Sara shot Charlie a 'gotcha' look.

Charlie paled, but agreed. "They're all sealed, right?"

"Yes, Charlie. They won't escape."

"Okay," he said, gesturing for Grissom to get into his Taurus. Grissom heard him mumble something along the lines of "_great idea… bring a bugman… get bugs… brilliant…"_

"What's that?" he asked innocently. "Did you say something?"

"Uh, nothing," Charlie said defensively as Grissom grinned toothily at his old friend. "Oh, knock it off and get you and your bug family into the damn car."

Charlie hit 100 mph driving back to his lab, looking over his shoulder periodically at the fluttering, buzzing occupants of his backseat. Once they arrived, Grissom took his time unloading his tiny passengers. Charlie guided him to a side room, complete with everything he needed to conduct his study. Grissom immersed himself in his work and the hours clicked by. Soon it was morning, and Charlie was standing in the doorway.

"Hey Happy, you think you'll be able to finish up in the next ten minutes? I ain't paying for your overtime."

Grissom looked up from his microscope. "Sure, just tell me where I can get my hands on some meat for these guys. I need to keep them alive for a little while longer."

"I'll send one of our newbies out to get you some ground beef at the store across the street. Set them up and he'll have it by the time you're done."

Charlie disappeared, only to return five minutes later, as Grissom was halfway through his cleanup.

"I'll be out of here soon," Grissom said from the corner. "By the way, have you seen my ride?"

"Yes, she's waiting for you in the parking lot. I'd like to talk with you about her for a minute, if you don't mind."

"Oh?"

"Gil… she's more delicate than she lets on."

"Huh?"

"I mean, I know she's pretty ballsy and damn intelligent, but she's got a lot of demons that haunt her, and she's really sensitive… about things."

"Charlie, get to the point."

Charlie sighed. "Look. I know that she's… well, taken an interest in you. And if you reciprocate that, well, hey… that's great. I'm all for it. You're both my friends and you deserve to be happy. If it's with each other, great. But…"

"I'm just staying with her, Charlie."

"Don't try to play me, Gil. It isn't my business what happens between you two, but I know her. I know her _very well._"

Grissom growled, "Izzat so?"

Charlie laughed. "Down boy. Not like that. She's like my kid sister. I look out for her, okay? And she's a good friend. And tonight, I could tell that she's happy, and I'm pretty sure that you have something to do with that. So, I need to you do me a favor."

"Okay…"

"I need you to promise me something. Promise that you won't hurt her. She's sensitive, and she… well, she hasn't been around the block all that much when it comes to relationships."

Grissom found that incredibly hard to believe, considering what had transpired in Sara's bedroom, oh… 11 hours ago? "I'm sure she's a big girl, and can take care of herself just fine, Charlie."

"Gil. I'm serious. Let her down easy if you change your mind. Or hell, just leave her alone if you aren't all that interested. She isn't that type of girl, okay? Just promise me you won't hurt her, that's all I ask."

"Charlie, I'm not going to hurt her."

"I need your word on that." Charlie was staring at him intently.

"This is very immature, you know that, right?"

Charlie said nothing, and continued with his stare down.

"All right, all right. I promise I won't do anything stupid to hurt her feelings. Does that work for you, or do I need to sign some pact in blood, or what?

"Yes. That's all I wanted. You are a man of your word, whether you care to admit it or not. And here comes Jim with your meat. Feed your infestation and go back to Sara's. I've got nothing on your gun or your kit, but there's a guy on dayshift that might have something for you tomorrow."

"Great," Grissom replied. "The sooner they find it, the better. But I still want to work on these guys for you."

"Yeah, well, whatever. I'll see you tomorrow night. Goodnight, Gil."

"'Night, Charlie." _Well, that was odd._ At least it did reaffirm that Sara and Charlie were only friends. But still, Sara was a grown woman, an intelligent woman, and she seemed perfectly capable of deciding what she did and did not want. Grissom preened to himself, thinking that what she did want was _him_. And not as a bedpost notch; she liked him for who he was. She'd smiled at him a lot tonight, and he'd caught her checking on him while he'd processed the scene.

Charlie was being overprotective of her; Grissom was sure of it. Sara and he were both adults. And he didn't have any intentions of hurting her; in fact, he intended to keep in touch with her after this whole fiasco was over. He'd be back to testify and he could see her again. Beyond that, he didn't know. How could he?

He gathered up Sara's spare kit after he put the last bug away. He wandered the corridors for a while until he found his way out the front door. Sara was there, leaning against her little beat-up Civic.

"You ready, Doctor Bugman?"

He grinned. "Yes'm."

They drove back to her home in silence, each tired from the night's events. Grissom sensed something was on her mind, but he let it go, not knowing her well enough to judge. His instincts weren't off though. When they were back inside her condo, she seemed very apprehensive. _Nervous about what happens now, most likely._

Grissom knew what to do. "I'm utterly exhausted," he said. "I'm going to get a quick shower and get some sleep. Is that okay?"

"Uh… sure," she replied. "That's fine."

"Great. Well, goodnight then."

"Goodnight… Grissom." It was the first time she'd called him by that name, or any name really, but Grissom didn't notice. Everyone called him Grissom. For her to do so just seemed natural to him. He didn't sense anything unusual. He should have.

The next afternoon when he woke, she was friendly but reserved. "I have a theory about your kit," she said as he sat down in her kitchen. She had toasted some bagels, and left out some light cream cheese, butter, and peanut butter. "Do you remember putting it back in your closet? Is it possible you left it in one of the conference rooms at the seminar?"

"Honestly," Grissom said as he helped himself to a plain bagel with peanut butter, "I can't remember. Thursday was a hectic day; I had three presentations. It _is _possible I left it in one of the rooms. Although it is highly unlikely." He munched happily on his bagel. _Breakfast is good. This is why men do the cohabitating thing._

"I'm thinking that the perp saw your kit, opened it, and made off with the gun. It's possible your kit is still at the hotel tucked away somewhere."

"It had my name and the address and phone number of the crime lab on the outside label. If someone found it, they should have called, or turned it in to the front desk of the hotel."

"Maybe they did. Did you check the concierge for Lost and Found? It's also possible that it just got misplaced in the shuffle. Either way, it's worth a shot to take a ride over there and look around."

"I agree," Grissom said, finishing his bagel and helping himself to another; this one a cinnamon raisin with cream cheese. "What time does your shift start tonight?"

"Seven o'clock."

"And it's three now, so we have time."

"Not a lot," she said with a tinge of impatience.

His eyes narrowed. _Ah, a negative of cohabitation._ "It will only take me a few minutes to get ready," he said in a neutral tone.

"Good," she replied. "The sooner we get over there; the more time we'll have to look."

Grissom couldn't argue with that logic.

…_continued next chapter ->_


	15. part2chap8

… _part 2, chapter 8 …_

They were back in the hotel, wandering the abandoned corridors. They'd checked three of the six conference rooms; all were deserted and cleaned. They'd checked the front desk, but they were not successful.

Sara sighed. "I was hoping we'd have found it by now."

"We have three more rooms to check, but honestly, I don't know. I'm pretty sure I brought it back to my room."

After the last room, they sat down at one of the conference tables. "Well, I'm fresh out of ideas," Sara said.

Grissom was staring at a door at the far end of the conference room. An unmarked door. "Where do you think that leads?" he asked her, but it was mostly a hypothetical question, as he was already standing and walking towards said door. Sara followed. It was unlocked. So Grissom opened it.

They found themselves in an all-white corridor; the service hallway most likely. "That door shouldn't have been unlocked," Sara commented. "The public isn't allowed back here."

Grissom shrugged and started walking down the corridor, opening each door he came across. Some led to utility closets, others to the conference rooms they'd just investigated. At the end of the corridor was a steel door. It was begging to be opened, so Grissom opened it.

They were now deep within the hotel, the corridors dark grey, the walls concrete. "This is the service personnel area," Sara said. "Let me go first."

"Why?"

"In case we run into a locker room, particularly a women's locker room."

"Oh? What if we run into the men's locker room first?"

"They'd be thrilled to see me, whereas the women would be horrified to see you. So I'm first."

"As you wish, madame."

Sara looked at him strangely before leading them through the grey, and somewhat damp, hallways.

They did hit the men's locker room first, but it had a door, and was closed.

Sara stood outside the door, peering in. "Wanna check it out?"

"I guess it wouldn't hurt," Grissom replied. "I had considered that an employee stole my kit. We should get permission first, though."

After fifteen minutes of negotiation with the manager, they led a very disgruntled Hispanic man with a large set of keys to each locker in the men's room. They found a couple of baggies of marijuana and a gun, but no kit. The Hispanic man kept looking over his shoulder, a half-concerned, half-panicked expression on his face.

The three of them stood outside the men's showers. "Do you want to check the women's lockers?" Sara asked.

"Yes," Grissom replied. The idea that a woman had stolen the kit seemed unlikely, but it was possible. Anything was possible. "We should check them, too," he said to the other man.

Fifteen minutes later, after evicting about half of the housekeeping staff from their locker room, Grissom held his precious kit in his two gloved hands. And the manager was in the kitchen, searching for a Juanita Hernandez.

"Can you drive me to your lab?" Grissom asked. "We need to get this printed."

"I agree," she said, with a hint of glee in her voice. "Well, aren't you going to say it?"

"Say what?"

"That I was right."

"How so?" he queried. "We don't know how this woman wound up with my kit in her locker. That's why we need to print it."

"Oh come off it. She took it from one of the conference rooms. She's not housekeeping, she's part of the kitchen staff. She doesn't have access to the guest rooms. However, she did have access to the conference rooms, with the catering and all."

"What catering? None of my seminars were catered. There were just pitchers of water on the tables."

"And where do you think those pitchers came from? Mars? The catering staff put them there."

"Hey," Grissom said in mock-defense, "there is no proof of the existence or non-existence of extra-terrestrial life. A Martian could have put it there." He was teasing her.

"Oh really? The next time you see one, do let me know. In the meantime, I'm sticking with my theory."

"Whatever floats your boat, m'dear."

Sara rolled her eyes at him as she walked towards her car.

oooooooooooooooooooooo

Grissom sat at the desk in his hotel room, lightly drumming his fingers. The alarm clock on the nightstand read 2:13. Sara was late, and he was anxious.

A soft knock interrupted the staccato rhythm of his impatience. He rose and opened the door to a bright-eyed Sara and a rather frustrated-looking Jon Northwind.

"I'm sorry we're late," she said as she walked by him into the room, carrying two large plastic bags. "We had to drive down by the mall in Waterford to get the pillows, and Jon forgot to bring his cutting shears, so we had to go get them, but we're here. You ready?"

"As ready as I'll ever be."

Jon handed Grissom a small digital camera. "Here. You know the drill. Do give me a ring if you need anything, although I definitely need to do some work at my desk, if you don't mind." He then leaned in a little closer to Grissom and whispered, "Was she like this in Vegas? Man, she's wound tighter than a tornado about this 'experiment' of hers."

Grissom gave him a neutral glance, and mumbled something purposely incoherent. Sara was sitting on his bed, wrapping some kind of sheet around what appeared to be a doughnut. More doughnut-shaped items were scattered across his bed.

Jon returned with a 'yeah right, pal' look, and said, "Well, have fun. I just adore her you know, but I thought she was going to kill me when I forgot the shears. Consider yourself warned."

"Uh… thanks," Grissom murmured.

Sara was finished with her doughnuts, wearing one around each wrist and looking at him expectantly from the bed. "So, I'm thinking we'll try the general tape first, then that HVAC tape, and then the electrical. Do you want to start with the showerhead or the closet?"

Grissom mentally sighed. He was in this for the long haul. Although she did look cute in her little pink bracelets. He wondered where she got the material; it reflected the light like satin. "Wherever you want is fine."

She came over towards him, wrists out, one hand holding a roll of green utility tape. It was similar in consistency to duct tape. Grissom had reservations about this whole idea of hers, but he did as expected and looped her wrists together. It was surprisingly difficult to use, but the foam around her wrists did hold the tape in place, despite the slip of the satin-like material.

He stood back when he was done, both of them making sure the positioning of her wrists was correct. Plus, having her so close was distracting. He tried to keep his mind clear and focused on the task at hand. Instead of on her hands, and how soft they'd felt when they'd brushed against his arms as he bound her. _God, help me. Really. I'm begging here._

He followed her into his bathroom, and she hopped into the bathtub, lifting her arms up to the metal pipe leading from the wall.

He stood outside the tub, realizing if he was going to do this, he'd have to be standing in the tub with her. He was hoping he'd be able to stand on the side. Guess not.

His body brushed against hers as he murmured, "Pardon my reach." He felt like he was on fire. However, Sara stood calmly and appeared unaffected by the whole ordeal. In fact, she looked moderately impatient and bored. That cooled Grissom's ardor drastically.

He looped the tape around her wrists and the showerhead's metal pipe about 3 or 4 times. She was standing on her tiptoes in order for her wrists to reach, and her face was pressing against the side of his neck. But he ignored it, and when he had finished, he stood back in the tub and studied her.

"Put weight on your wrists," he told her.

She did, and she dangled there for a few moments, her knees slightly bent. Grissom went over and examined the memory foam. It seemed to be cutting into the foam at the right places, confirming Sara's suspicion about how they were bound, but the tape wasn't folding like he'd expected.

"This isn't it," he told her. "The tape's too wide, and too thick." Grissom cut through the tape with the Stanley utility knife he'd bought the evening before. Might as well use it like their perp did. It took him a few cuts with the knife to make it through the thickness of the tape.

Once he'd set Sara free, she stabilized her weight and immediately looked at her wrists. "Cut it off," she said. He did. Then he unwrapped the tape, taking most of the fabric with him. She studied the foam, watching it slowly return to its normal shape.

"Well, they were definitely bound like this. The impressions are consistent. And I agree; this isn't the right tape." She took the fabric from Grissom's hand. "No way. This would have left a much wider mark. And really, it distributed the weight better." She snorted lightly in disgust. "Great. Now I'm learning the best way to dangle people from showers."

"Always something new," Grissom said with a shrug.

"Let's do the HVAC tape next. It's the blue set on the bed."

Grissom left Sara standing in the shower while he went to get the other doughnut/bracelet things. There were three of them lying on the bed, one blue, another green, and another pale yellow. Each had a roll of tape directly next to them. All were wrapped in the same satin-like material. He picked up the blue set, and returned to the bathroom. He bound Sara like before, asking "Do you want to try the closet this time? Or keep testing in here?"

"Honestly, I think he did it here. I think he bound them, and then taped them up in the shower. Realistically, it is easier to clean them up…" Sara stopped abruptly, an intense look on her face. "Grissom, maybe that's it. Maybe he's obsessed with cleanliness. You know, OCD."

"Maybe. Maybe he's just smart."

"That too. But really, it makes sense. I wonder… tape me up again."

Grissom complied, this time using the light silver tape that was supposed to be the new duct tape. It looked metallic, felt like plastic, and it was much easier to use.

"Shower or closet?" he asked again.

"Shower." They went through the same routine as before, but when Sara went to put her weight onto the tape, it ripped and her arms fell forward, causing her to lose her balance. Grissom stepped forward to catch her, and they found themselves entangled in each other, her wrists pressing against his leg. High against his leg, and very close to dangerous territory.

"Hey," he'd said as he caught her. They stared at each other, a small heat burning between them, until Sara turned away, killing the flame. Grissom stepped back, lifting her gently as she regained her balance. "Guess that wasn't it," he deadpanned.

Sara said nothing; she just stuck out her wrists. Grissom undid the tape, and went for the third set. He brought back the green set, with one of the two types of electrical tape, and wrapped her wrists again.

"I have another theory," Sara said softly, lifting her arms. "Tape me up." He did. "Now," she said, almost hesitantly, "pretend you're him. In here…. _with_ the women. What would you do?"

He paused, studying her to see if she was really serious. She looked it. Grissom was getting annoyed. This was a dangerous game she was playing. His whole body was tense, and his mind knew this was crossing the line. He should just tell her no. But he'd had enough of her attitude, and enough of her toying with him and his emotions.

He reached with his right hand for her wrist, and pinned it against the shower wall for stability. With his left, he reached around her waist and grabbed onto her ass, stepping between her legs and pinning her hips against the shower wall with his own. The surprised gasp that slipped from her lips clearly told him that she wasn't exactly expecting him to be this forward and familiar with her. _You wanna role-play, sweetheart? Fine. We'll role-play._

His eyes were steel as they bored into hers. There was shock, and confusion, and a bit of anger brewing in there. He felt her rapid pulse through her wrist beneath his palm, and he felt his own heartbeat throbbing against her as his hips pinned her against the wall. She had to feel his arousal; he certainly did.

Her eyes narrowed, and with one twisting movement, she'd lifted her legs and wrapped them around his waist, locking her ankles and pressing them against his ass. She glared defiantly at him. He'd surprised her, so she was surprising him in return.

Grissom couldn't help himself, and he uttered a soft groan as her movement pushed him in closer towards her. He shifted her weight in his hand instinctively, so that the right part of him was exactly paired up with the right part of her. The clothing that separated them must have transformed to gossamer; all he felt was heat and heartbeats. His eyes met hers, and the gloating expression on her face at his weakness shifted his focus. _So, it's a game, hmm? Means nothing? We'll see._

"So," he murmured, "our perp secures his victim. To make his enjoyment easier, he uses the wall as an aid. He holds her here," he said, pushing against her wrist firmly, "and here," he repeated, squeezing her ass. That warranted a stifled noise from her, most likely a squeak of indignation. _Too bad._

He lowered his face next to her left ear, whispering softly. "Our victims are unconscious, Sara, so they most likely aren't wrapping their legs around our perp in unrestrained desire." With a quick movement, he released her wrist to unlock her legs from around him. It wasn't difficult, as she's releasing them herself. He watched as red seeped down the skin on the side of her face to her neck. He'd embarrassed her. _Good._

"Most likely, he positions her properly," he continued as he used both hands to position _her_ properly, "gathers his bearings, and there you have it." Grissom returned his right hand back to her wrist, and he lifted his head to meet her eyes. He's pressing his body against hers, and he can tell she's realized she underestimated how far he'd go with this. He drops his restraint and gazes at her for what seems like forever, opening the darkness of his soul to her. Whatever she sees there seems to bother her, as the fire of defiance he saw before has faded into something softer, with a hint of alarm.

"And now you know," he whispered, his voice almost a growl. "Experiment over." He released her body first, and she scrambled to find her balance as he cut through the electrical tape with his knife. He lowered her wrists to her, and showed her the results. "This is the tape he used. You can go now." He sliced through the bindings on her wrists and walked out of the bathroom.

Grissom's heart was pounding and his body was on fire as he walked across his hotel room. _I went too far._ He stared out the large window, watching a small boat make its way up the river below. _That was inappropriate, disrespectful, and absolutely grounds for sexual harassment. At a minimum. _

A small voice in the back of his brain echoed evilly, "_Oh yeah? She asked for it. It was her idea. She's been asking for it since you've arrived._"

That didn't make it right. He'd let his emotions overrule his better judgment.

Sara's voice was soft as it interrupted his thoughts. "Grissom?"

He said nothing.

"Grissom."

"You should go," he told her firmly, not letting his eyes stray from the river below. A white motorboat with a blue canopy was moving upriver now; the previous boat having passed behind the trees moments ago.

"Are you going to pretend that didn't happen?" she asked. She wasn't angry, but there was that familiar hint of defiance in her voice.

"No. But you can, if you'd like." The white motorboat was almost out of sight now.

He heard her sigh heavily. "What do you want from me?" she asked, emotion dripping from every word.

"I'd ask the same of you," he replied.

"You have no basis to ask that. I can assure you, I want _nothing_ from you."

"Except an argument."

"Jesus! What do you expect? You're _here_, okay? I left the lab with the sole purpose of leaving that part of my life behind. And now it's back, in all of its twisted glory."

"I've been nothing but polite and respectful to you, Sara. I'm here to do a job."

"Yes, and isn't that just _peachy_, because the one thing you _neglected _to be towards me in Vegas was respectful! And, why is it _you_ that's here, anyways? Why'd it have to be you that showed up? And why's Sofia running the night shift?"

"I was on business travel when I got the call about this case. I had to… change my plans." He still wouldn't face her. The ripples in the river from the wake of the boat had calmed somewhat.

"Oh, gee, let me really express some sympathy for you in that regard. What are you missing? A lecture at a university? More cockroach racing? Or maybe another forensics seminar? Going to go hunt yourself down another bimbo to fill my place and placate your ego?"

Grissom stiffened visibly. She was pushing him, and his temper was brewing. "The last. I am supposed to be recruiting your replacement."

That stung her, as he heard her sniff softly and the room got deathly quiet. After a moment, she murmured sadly, "Where?"

Grissom paused, but answered truthfully. "Here. In Connecticut."

"Do… do you have a candidate in mind?"

"Yes."

"I… I need to go. I… don't need to hear this." He heard her pack up her little doughnuts and her kit. When she turned the doorknob, he spoke.

"It's you."

A pause. "What?"

"I came here to recruit you." He turned to face her, and wasn't surprised to see the welling of tears in her eyes. "I'm here to bring you home, Sara."

"No. noooo…" she moaned. "You can't be."

"The case got in the way. And I behaved poorly today. I apologize for that. But that is why I'm here." He paused, letting his words sink in. "For what it's worth, the team misses you too. There's a card for you - from them; I left it on the dresser by the door. I meant to give it to you when you left today. They'd be upset if you didn't have it."

She looked to her right, and lifted the somewhat scuffed envelope. He watched her as she opened it slowly, and as she read the notes from the team. Grissom had no idea what they said, but her tears started in earnest, running unheeded down her cheeks. She was mumbling softly, "… they didn't know… think it's about _him_… god…" She chuckled for a moment, and Grissom assumed she must be reading Greg's little note. Greg could always make her laugh. After a while, she put down the card on the table.

"They miss me."

"Yes, they do."

"They want me to come back."

"Yes."

"Why do you think I left, Grissom?"

"You left for personal reasons. I read it on your Leave of Absence form."

"I'm sure you did," she murmured to herself. "And…" she continued, her tone harsh, "you assumed that these 'reasons', that they involved you, right?"

"To some degree, yes. I saw your apartment."

Sara frowned at that, realizing he'd seen what she'd left behind. "They…" she said, pointing to the card. "They think my leaving is because of us. The non-relationship or whatever between us."

"Yes, they do."

"Do you?"

"I don't know."

"No, you wouldn't. Well here Griss, let me give you a clue. I didn't leave because of us. I didn't leave because of my inability to deal with the lack of an 'us' Broken hearts do mend after all. But don't doubt your instincts; I did leave because of _you_."

Grissom got a sick feeling deep in the pit of his stomach. He did assume she left because of how he'd handled their relationship. Their _personal_ relationship.

"In a way, you should be thanking me. I covered for your ass, and nobody suspects a thing. You see, I didn't leave because you were destroying my heart, Grissom. You'd already succeeded in that. I left because you were destroying my _career._"

…_continued next chapter ->_


	16. part2chap9

… _part 2, chapter 9 …_

"Sara?" he asked quietly, his voice taut with his own emotion.

"It's true," she said softly. "I'm sorry if it hurts you, but damn it, it's the truth."

Grissom was floored. "You could have talked to me about this… You should have talked to me about this."

"Look, I tried… a few times. But you 'felt it was best'. 'Not worth the risk', remember? That was the final straw you know. You took what I told you, in confidence, and you used it against me at work. You took my personal history into consideration in a professional environment. If I had known how you'd handle it, I would never have told you." She started pacing around the doorway, the frustration and agitation she'd held for God-Knows-How-Long was bubbling out from her. "I tolerated a lot from you; I think you are quite aware of just how much I've tolerated. If not, do say so, and I'll be happy to fill you in."

Grissom hurt. His whole being just _hurt._ He could accept himself as incompetent when it came to relationships. He could admit that he'd been wrong with how he'd handled his feelings for Sara. However, his pride and self-esteem were seriously burning at her words. He tried hard to be a good supervisor. He cared about everyone on his team, and tried to do his best for them. But, she felt he was a bad supervisor. She'd left CSI because of it.

"I'll take that as indication you are aware," she stated when he did not reply. "Then I'm sure you see the situation you put me in. I couldn't leave; you'd do something to make me stay. And since I'm a total asshole when it comes to that, whatever you did would most likely convince me that you cared, and I'd stay. I couldn't get promoted; you felt I wasn't ready. I couldn't work the higher profile cases; you thought I couldn't handle them. And it wasn't like I had any support from higher up; Ecklie's rise into power just about killed that. So what was left for me? Babysitting Greg? Playing second fiddle to Sofia? Transferring to work for Catherine? Or even worse, Ecklie? Please, do tell me where my career was going in Vegas, because I looked, _real hard_, and I sure didn't see it going anywhere. I saw it staying in one place – with you, at your discretion, and at your convenience. Whatever _you_ wanted for me, in whatever warped way you saw me on that particular day, well, that's what I was going to get. Every day, until you retired or got hit by a bus."

_Hit by a bus. That's nice._ Grissom was slowly absorbing her point of view. In a way, she wasn't wrong. Where was her career going in Las Vegas? Then again, he didn't think that was important to her. It never crossed his mind that she'd want to climb the corporate ladder of CSI.

"I didn't know your career was that important to you," he said softly.

"Christ, Grissom, what else do I have? I'm closer to 40 than 30, I'm single, and there aren't any real prospects of marriage or children in my future. I own nothing except my clothes and my car, and as of right now, I have no savings and no permanent home. The apartment I'm staying in is part of the internship. Once it's over, I either stay here and get my own place, or I move on." She stopped, her grief taking hold of her voice. "I have nothing," she mumbled softly. "And if I stayed in Vegas, I'd have had nothing forever."

_God_. Grissom didn't think he could feel any smaller or more selfish than he felt at that moment. His only defense was that he didn't know she felt this way.

"I… didn't know. And you do not have 'nothing'. You have us, the team. You have Greg and Nick and Warrick and Catherine and Brass. And me."

"Oh don't you start with that. I _never_ had you. And I never fit in. Not like you'd have noticed, but I didn't."

"Sara…"

"'_Sara…_' what?" she snarled. "It's just the way things were, Grissom. Look, I'm not saying anything new here, and you know it. It's the way things were. That's life. I had two weeks to think about it while I drove clear across the damn country. I may not like how my life turned out in Vegas, but it was what it was. It was my choice to come to CSI, and it was my choice to leave."

He stared at her, lost. She was one hundred percent correct, and he'd missed it all. He hadn't seen her point of view. Part of him wondered if he'd chosen to not see her point of view; blocking it out entirely. He knew he'd gotten caught up in dealing with her as a problem; as something that could hurt him both emotionally and professionally. He saw now that he'd downright neglected to supervise her as an employee. He didn't even view her as one. He had let his emotions affect how he handled her, from day one until even just now. It was him. It was his fault.

"For what it's worth," he said softly, head down, "I'm sorry."

"I know," she said, despair in her voice and tears in her eyes. "But I had to do what was best for me, okay?"

"I… I understand," he said complacently, watching her take her card and head for the door. Then rebellion roiled up within him. "Well, no. No, I don't."

Sara paused, her hand inches from the doorknob. "Excuse me? You don't?"

"No. I don't. If you were doing what was best for you, you wouldn't be here. You'd be on another case. I spoke with Dr. Nave, and he claimed that although you were uncomfortable with me, you were adamant about working this. You were never slow, Sara. If you truly want to do what is best for you, you should ask for a re-assignment."

Sara stared at him, slightly slack-jawed. It appeared he'd floored her just the way she'd floored him.

"Sara," he said simply, "I will admit to the mistakes I've made. And there are many of them. But I will not stand here and take full credit for this. You could have spoken with me. You should have spoken with me. Instead you left without a word to anyone."

Resentment and ire burned bright in her eyes, but it slowed to a simmer as she walked across the room and sat slowly on his bed with a light sigh. "It was the only way," she stated.

"I disagree."

"Yeah," she said, raising her head to shoot him a dark look, "you would."

They were silent for a while, Sara sitting on the edge of his bed, while he stood by the window facing her. He finally broke the silence with a soft murmur. "I don't have a solution for this. I don't know what to do."

"Neither do I." More silence. "We have to go to work soon," she said, looking down at her watch. "Michael will want to know the results…" Sara let her voice trail off.

Grissom swore silently, eyeing the camera sitting on the table by the door. He'd forgotten to take photos. Not like he'd want to have a documented history of the past hour. "We forgot about the camera," he told her.

"Oh… right." She stood slowly and walked back to the table, picking up the small camera. She flicked a small button on the side, exposing an unused roll of film. She carefully removed it, and shut the camera back. "Jon forgot to load film in the camera. What a shame."

Grissom walked towards her, and she handed him the unused film. "And I didn't have any. A shame"

"I'll brief Mike and then I'll meet you in A-3 to document … this and review the trace for Kathleen Umbridge."

"Okay. Sara…" he said, his tone serious.

She smiled softly at him. "We can talk about it later."

"I want you to come home. To Vegas. With me."

She sighed, her expression torn. "We can talk about it later."

oooooooooooooooooooooo

Grissom conveniently disposed of the film on the way to his rental car. He felt exhausted and relieved and excited and depressed - all at the same time. He knew why she left. One mystery solved. But the regret ate at him. It really was his fault.

He'd told her why he was here. And she didn't exactly run screaming from the room, and it didn't look like was she taking herself off the case, even though he'd called her on it. Something was still there between them. He knew it, and the burden he'd felt for years was lifting. She knew how he felt now. She had to. The incident in the shower left very little ambiguity. He wanted her.

And he told her what else he wanted. He was clear – her, with him, in Vegas. Where it went from here, well that was up to her.

He arrived at her lab, noting her car was already parked in the lot. As he got out, he heard a vaguely familiar voice call to him.

"Well, well, well… if it isn't Doctor Gilbert Grissom. Hello there, _Gil._"

Grissom turned, his memory registering the owner of that voice. "Charlie? Is that you? What the hell are you doing here?"

An older, leaner version of the Charles Rourdan he knew was walking intently towards him. Grissom met him halfway with a half-smile, the surprise clear on his face and the gears in his head spinning. _Charlie is the head of San Fran CSR. Why is he here? Sara…?_

A prickle of alarm went off at the same time Charlie growled, "Some promise. _You fucking bastard_." Grissom barely had time to register that yes, this was his friend, and yes, said friend was extremely angry, when Charlie's very solid right fist slammed into Grissom's jaw.

Pain shot through his head and white specks flickered in his dimmed vision. "Charlie?" he asked, raising his hand to his lip. It hurt, and he tasted blood.

"I can't believe you'd even have the balls to come here. How sadistic are you? Do you want to crush her even more? Haven't you done enough?" And with that, Charlie swung at him again. This time Grissom was prepared, and he dodged a second blow. He grabbed his friend's arm, holding it tightly.

"What is wrong with you?" he said as he stared Charlie down. Long repressed instincts were returning. Grissom could handle himself in a fight. Of course, he hadn't been in one in years, but when he was younger, he'd participated in his share of battles. Particularly in high school. Bullies left you alone if you could kick their ass, and you kicked a few just to prove it. Charlie was solid and strong, but Grissom had an inch or two on him.

The two men eyed one another, Grissom's grip never wavering and Charlie's muscles tightening beneath Grissom's hand. Both were poised to strike when Sara's voice broke their standoff.

"Charles!"

Grissom turned his head towards her, immediately releasing Charlie. Charlie stepped back, looking sullen and pissed.

Sara came storming over, and after getting a quick look at a bleeding Grissom, she glared at Charlie in full fury. "I can't believe you. What the hell do you think you're doing? Have you regressed to a grade school mentality now? You're what – defending my honor?"

Grissom found this interesting. Sara knew Charlie was upset at him, and she knew why.

She continued. "I told you to let it go. I specifically asked you to let it go. And this is how you keep _your _promises? Need I define for you the word 'hypocrite'? Or '_drama queen_'?"

Charlie scowled, but said nothing. Sara turned, and focused her attention on Grissom, examining the blood and the redness on his cheek. It had been a solid hit, and Grissom suspected his jaw would be rather colorful by the end of the shift. She said nothing, and turned back to Charlie. "Take him inside and clean him up. If he files an assault charge on you, it's your own damn fault. And _do not_ let Mike see him like that. I don't need the questions." She turned and stormed back into the building.

Charlie looked at Grissom, the anger still prevalent, but the rage residing. "You heard her. Let's go."

He followed as Charlie took him into a side room off of the kitchen area, and grabbed a first aid kit out of a cabinet. "I'm not apologizing," he stated bluntly. "You deserved it."

"Yes," Grissom replied, "I did."

Charlie raised an eyebrow at that as he handed Grissom some mild antibiotic cream, some gauze pads, and a small hand mirror. "So you admit it."

"Yes," Grissom said as he examined his face. His lip was split, all right. And his jaw was going to be sore. He rubbed it softly. _OW._

"I should have clobbered you for taking her away from my lab."

"Tomorrow is another day."

Charlie smirked at that, and then frowned. "You cannot weasel your way out of this one. You broke your word. I _trusted_ you. I trusted you would take care of her."

"Charlie, it got complicated."

"Bullshit. You let it get complicated."

"I thought I could handle it."

"Well, obviously you thought wrong, because now she's a wreck."

_A wreck?_ "She seems to be doing all right. She left Vegas, after all."

Charlie continued to frown. "I couldn't even get her to resign. She would only do a leave of absence," he murmured, mostly to himself.

"_You_ brought her here?" Grissom asked, his voice echoing into the common area. He looked around cautiously, wondering if anyone had overheard his outburst. He continued in a harsh whisper. "You brought her here? To this hell hole? Are you insane?"

"Hey," Charlie growled in defense, "this is _my _hell hole you're so graciously slandering."

Grissom paused, stunned. "You work here?"

"Yup."

"What happened to San Francisco? You were the head of their lab!" Grissom was shocked. Charlie was, in most instances, a good leader and a decent guy. His lab wasn't as highly ranked as Vegas, but it consistently made the top twenty, if not top ten in the country. And Charlie loved his job and loved California.

"I retired." Charlie was very simplistic about this, like it was an everyday occurrence for him to just up and leave everything he'd ever known.

"You… retired."

"Yup, and now I work here part-time. Just call me Charlie the Consultant."

Grissom tried not to gape. "Forgive me, but… why?"

"I settled down."

_Omigod, it's a woman._ "You met someone."

"Yes, I did. Well, she finally met me. It was all very intense and dramatic; you truly missed all the fun. You really should have stayed in California."

Vague memories returned to Grissom. "The DA. Blonde. Long legs."

"You knew?"

"A little birdie told me." Grissom watched as Charlie quickly realized who the little bird was.

"Her name is Irene. She was involved in… something. An incident. It made her rethink her career, and her life. It's a part of how we met, so to speak. A year afterwards, she packed it all up and came out here. Said she loved New England winters. Said she wanted seasons. She also wanted a vineyard and a horse farm. Just like north of Napa, only here. So that's what I gave her. Although, to be honest, she paid for most of it. She's, uh… well, she made a helluva lot of money as a DA."

Grissom knew Charlie wasn't hurting as head of the lab, either. "You gave it all up. For her."

Charlie stared intently at him. "Yee-up."

"No regrets."

"Not a one. I'd do it again today, and tomorrow, and every single day from now until the day I damn well croak."

Grissom eyed his old friend warily.

"Okay," Charlie agreed. "I miss it a little. I miss the bay, and the food, and my team. And the locals here are a little weird. Way too uptight. But our place, it's gorgeous. And, it's worth it. She's happy here. She plays with her horses and her grapes, and she cooks these ritzy exotic dinners that most of the time taste like grass, and… she's happy." To look at him, you'd think Charlie was talking about ballistics results on the hottest case of the century. Clearly, his new girlfriend, or wife, or whatever she was, made him happy as well.

"I'm happy for you," Grissom said sincerely before changing his tone to a more somber one. "Why'd you bring Sara here?"

Charlie paused before answering. "That wasn't entirely my doing, but I've known she's been unhappy for a while now. I kept presenting her with the opportunity to leave, and she always said no. Still, I kept asking. And one day, she said yes. But on her terms – it was to be temporary only."

"So, you know about… things."

"Yes," he mimicked sarcastically, "I know about 'things'."

"Thank you for being her friend."

"I'll bite my tongue on that one and just say you're welcome. Are you here to try to drag her back to Vegas?"

It was Grissom's turn to be cheeky. "Yup."

"Smart ass. She won't go. She's done. I know it."

"I intend to be persuasive."

"I won't let you take her again. You hear me? Do you have any idea how much you upset her? Do you honestly know what you've done to her?" Charlie was agitated again, and Grissom said the only thing he could think of to calm him down.

"I love her."

Charlie looked like he was going to pound Grissom into a pulp, but after a moment, his face relaxed and he sat back into his seat with a soft sigh. Grissom was still lost in his own surprise; that he'd actually admitted he loved her. He'd said it. Aloud. Charlie could have beaten him senseless, and Grissom wouldn't have even realized it.

A few moments passed before Charlie spoke again. "I should have known. You have a realfunny way of showing it."

Grissom looked away. "I didn't want it. I … didn't know how to handle it. It was too much. But I'm here now. I'm _here._"

A cough interrupted their conversation. Sara was standing in the doorway.

_Oh shit. How much did she hear?_ Both men thought the exact same thing, and both looked as guilty as sin.

"Talking about me?" she asked, with a hint of superiority. She knew they were, and they said nothing to the contrary. They said nothing at all.

"Ah… you're partners in crime again. Male dominance rituals at their finest. Well, when you both are done with your testosterone moment, I'll need Grissom in the analysis room with me, and you, my unwanted protector, in the lab with trace. The results aren't back yet from Kathleen's wrists and I want that expedited. Go hover until you get something." She turned to Grissom. "I want the _exact_ tape that was used."

Grissom just stared. _Authoritative tonight, Miss Sidle?_

Charlie was less tactful. "Awful bossy, aren't we?"

"Clearly someone around here needs to take charge of this investigation, since you two are too busy pummeling one another and then bonding over the whole thing." And with that, she strode away, leaving two slightly mollified men in her wake.

What they missed was Sara's immediate dash to the ladies room, where she crammed herself into a stall and tried to keep from hyperventilating. And crying. And barfing up her breakfast. And smashing her head against the wall until she passed out. What they missed was that she overheard more of their conversation than they could ever imagine. A lot more.

oooooooooooooooooooooo

Shift ended for Grissom around 6:30 a.m. He and Sara had spent quite some time eliminating suspects from their list. Charlie had pitched in, and the three of them had a semi-useful brainstorming session late in the evening. There was still some significant tension between Grissom and Charlie, and Sara was unusually quiet, but it was an evening, and now it was over.

As Grissom stepped into the elevator of the hotel, reviewing the events of the day in his mind, he was joined by a young man clad in a nondescript blue jumpsuit. The oval patch bore the name "Daniel". He carried a large bucket with him, filled with miscellaneous objects that Grissom didn't notice. Most were hidden by the various tools hanging in the pouch that fit around the rim of the bucket.

The young man studied Grissom. "So, how does the other guy look?"

Grissom blinked and turned to focus his attention on Daniel. "Hmm? Oh, he looks a little better," he said, lifting his hand to his face and touching his jaw gently. Still sore. He wondered how bad the bruising was going to be.

"Hey, better luck next time."

Grissom shrugged. "Hopefully there won't be a next time."

The elevator emitted a soft chime; they'd reached the 12th floor, and the young man hefted his bucket.

"See you around," Daniel said as he exited the elevator.

"See you," Grissom replied politely. His mind wandered back to the events of the evening as he rode the elevator to his floor.

Grissom would seriously regret that he didn't pay more attention to his companion in the elevator that night. Maybe he could chalk it up to old age, or lack of sleep, or the overwhelming stress that he'd been under since he'd arrived in Connecticut. There was no question that Grissom was mentally exhausted at a minimum, so it was understandable that he didn't notice that the majority of the tools were electrical tools, and that they were accompanied by rolls of colored electrical tape stuffed into the pouch pockets. It was almost, but not quite, acceptable that he missed the white bottle with the blue cap that was centered between some clean terrycloth rags and bundles of wire. The bottle, whose label, although partially obscured by the rags, read 'CLOROX'.

… _end part 2 …_

_... continued part 3 ->_


	17. part3chap1

**Disclaimer:** CSI and its characters are not mine. The Mohegan Sun is real, but all descriptions, characters and events described within should be considered as completely fictional. Nothing like this would ever happen at the Sun.

**Warning:** This fic is rated 'M' for a very real reason, and now we've come to it. I hope all readers respect this rating – and I'm warning you now, Part 3 is not for everyone. "Squicky" is an adequate description. So is "disturbing". You've been warned.

**Beta Props:** I have to again worship the ground that Cybrokat and Jennie walk on. They are both very encouraging and supportive, and without them I'd be lost.

* * *

… _part 3, chapter 1 …_

The bluish flickering glow of the television reflected through the small bare window of the one bedroom house. A naked man was lying in his bed on his stomach, spread-eagled with his knees bent and feet dangling in the air. Through the window, he was clearly visible to anyone who'd care to look. However, the lack of neighbors prevented any unexpected snooping. The dirt road off Rte. 32 was marked as a residence only by the rusted black mailbox hanging half-bent from its wooden post. The nearest building was the run-down and abandoned gas station about 1500 yards away.

The man on the bed preferred his isolation and was delighted to have found this small cottage (it really shouldn't be classified as a house) available for rent. The uncharacteristically large shed in the backyard was a bonus, and after a solid month of extensive cleaning and self-made repairs, it now served as an excellent workshop.

Inside the television, a reporter, her hair not quite perfectly styled, spoke solemnly into her microphone about the latest 'atrocity' at the casino. With the backdrop of an unsettled crowd hovering over uncomfortable chairs that faced an empty podium within a conference room, the woman spoke of the recent crime spree of the 'Casino Killer'.

The man chuckled softly. They were all so primitive, so blinded by their own stupidity. Titles meant nothing. His cause was driven by a higher power, and he wouldn't stop until he'd completed his mission of mercy. He was a missionary.

Really, they should all just relax. He only had three left. It wasn't like he planned to continue after their redemptions; at least, not in this area. Missionaries traveled. And his contract here at the Sun was almost complete. The soft shores and sinners of Atlantic City were calling to him, but he must finish his work here first.

The woman on television continued to ramble haphazardly, stalling for time until the press conference began. It was this event that the man was eager to see. He hefted himself up and turned, reaching for the small green canister of Bag Balm on the nightstand. He looked down at himself, red and chafed. The Bag Balm helped, it sped up the healing process. So did his numerous vitamins and herbal supplements. His pain and discomfort was a small price to pay for the ultimate redemption of the sin-laden souls.

He scooped a glob of the strong-smelling ointment and spread it gently. His body stirred slightly at the sensation, but this wasn't about pleasure. This was treatment.

The drone of the reporter ceased, and the man shifted himself backwards to lean against the wall. A small procession was shuffling its way towards the podium. So, these were the men and… ah yes… women who were going to attempt to thwart him. These were the faces of the enemy.

The apparent leader, a distinguished looking official type approached the podium, followed by the entourage of others. On his left, a middle-aged balding and thin man, a tall, much younger man whose aura radiated _cop_, and a shorter, stout man with graying temples. On his right, a bearded older man stood before the single woman, both somber and stone-faced.

The leader spoke in the stereotypical authoritative tone, after tapping the microphone softly as a sound check. "Ladies and gentlemen, the senseless murders of four women within our community have brought me before you today. We are here to reassure the general public that everything possible is being done to bring this monster to justice."

Monster? He was no monster; he was a _redeemer_. He cleansed the souls of sinners, baptizing them before releasing them to the glories of Heaven. The sinners were the evil here. _They_ were the monsters.

"The tragic loss of Angela Hardling, the wife of the North Stonington First Selectman, Thomas Hardling, represents the fourth victim of this crazed killer. We are here to assure you that this violence will not be tolerated and all resources of the state are at our disposal. Here to speak on behalf of the investigative team, I present to you the head of the Southeastern Connecticut Crime Lab, Dr. Michael Nave."

Minor applause as the balding man switched places with Mr. Official. Baldy spoke with similar authority, but a lighter voice. "My organization has been working to solve these crimes and to bring the person or persons involved to justice. We are encouraging all of the members of our community to not live in fear – we will catch this killer. Do not feel as if you must stay in your homes, Troop E and local police departments are on twenty-four hour alert, and forces have been brought in from other areas within the state. Security at both casinos has been enhanced as well. Our only recommendation is for all women to be cautious, as they always should be, and take precautions if they must travel alone."

More chuckling. Didn't they realize that his choices were not random? Did they not see how he'd marked them, labeling them as the sinners they were? A part of him relaxed; his enemies were not appearing to be a threat to his plans.

Baldy shifted his weight hesitantly at the podium before stating, "We are willing to take questions at this time."

A sea of hands appeared, and Official Guy pointed at one. One of the reporters from the local ABC affiliate spoke. "Dr. Nave, is it true that the majority of these crimes have occurred at the Mohegan Sun casino? And given that the casino rests on sovereign land, what is the involvement of the Mohegan Tribe with this case?"

Baldy gestured for Young Punk Cop to respond, stating that he'd let a "Detective Northwind speak on behalf of the tribe." Young Punk Cop spoke well for his apparent age, stating that the tribe was working in collaboration with the state and local police departments, and that all resources within the tribe were focused on the resolution of this case. Young Punk Cop stepped back as more hands waved in the air.

Official Guy selected another, and the question/answer routine continued. He was growing bored; politics and money were not of any interest to him. His mind wandered drowsily, thinking of the women he knew and who best fit the standards he was searching for. His criteria were written on the paper taped to the wall above his head, directly beneath his yellow-stained crucifix.

The woman behind the hotel's desk was a candidate; so was the head housekeeper who worked second shift. He was running low on time, and his ability to socialize with women was limited. He already selected the last of his remaining three, but logistics would make her redemption difficult. Plus she smelled of moldy cheese. She fit the criteria to a tee, but that didn't make his task pleasant. His time with her would be short, and he again debated whether or not he should baptize her with his essence. She deserved it; she was a sinner as much as the others. Perhaps he would bleach her _first_, and then commence the baptism.

The sound of a deep woman's voice raised in question re-focused the man's attention back to the press conference. "… enlisted the help of a forensics specialist named Gil Grissom from Las Vegas?"

Vegas? A tremor of worry caused the man's brow to furrow as Baldy answered in the affirmative and introduced another doctor. It must take a PhD to solve crimes nowadays. He watched in frightened anticipation as the bearded man approached the podium. The man introduced himself as Doctor Grissom from the Las Vegas Crime Lab. He stated he was brought in onto the case as it connected to a similar unsolved crime within his jurisdiction.

The man sat ramrod straight on his bed and stared at his television in horror. That guy knew about his angel, his inspiration. This was not good. No, not good at all. Vegas was not the backwoods of Connecticut. And Bearded Doc looked and sounded pretty damn serious.

Questions were being asked of the bearded man, questions regarding the crime in Vegas and how it tied in here. He answered in his deep voice, his words highly technical. While he answered, the woman standing to his side watched him attentively, with a forced air of indifference. The man studied her for a moment, noticing her intensity. Now _she _would make a nice candidate for his final three. But accessing her would be extraordinarily difficult. Perhaps later, a year or so from now, he could return and release her from her anger. The thought sent a tremble down his spine and he reached for the Bag Balm again. Like he had with his first Mary, he would baptize that one _many_ times.

Bearded Doc turned to his right towards Baldy and Official Guy, and the hint of a purplish bruise could be seen on his cheek.

_Holy fuck!_ The man dropped the canister onto the floor. Bearded Doc was the guy from the elevator – the guy who'd taken a solid one to the chops. That was two days ago, the same day… _oh FUCK._

That morning he had redeemed his latest Mary, the politician's wife, in her complementary hotel room. The opportunity had practically pounded on his door. She was staying with her husband, who conveniently had an all-day meeting with other local politicians in a conference rooms at the other end of the casino.

It was no accident that she'd called the front desk requesting the lights in her bathroom to be fixed. He'd waited in the lobby for the call, and he'd been inside her room and had her subdued before the regular maintenance guy even arrived. The note on the door was enough to send him away without even a knock. Subduing her required a deviation from his normal methods, and he had been pleased with the results of his homemade taser. Violence was so messy; but electricity was clean. Final release to the Savior required carnality by design, but he was always quick about it. And he always cleaned them afterwards. He prided himself on his considerate treatment of his sinners; he kept them calm so that they were unafraid. When his latest Mary had regained consciousness, he'd offered her the wine and waited. It only was a matter of time until she was receptive and the baptism commenced.

Still, his consideration towards his Marys was irrelevant. This man on TV, this Bearded Doc, he had seen him and his bucket that morning in the elevator. Why weren't the police breaking down his door already? His breathing quickened as panic ensued. He shut off the television quickly and tread lightly to the bedroom window. His eyes met inky darkness, the faint glow of the streetlight in the distance the only light. He listened, but heard nothing but the faint whir of passing traffic and the typical sounds of a forest at night.

He was undiscovered. Bearded Doc from Vegas had not figured out his secret. Yet it was only a matter of time before he did. The man stared into the darkness, wracking his brain for the memory of that night. What floor had been pressed other than 12? A realization slammed him. It didn't matter which floor Bearded Doc was on. He was staying at the Sun. He _parked_ at the Sun.

But, what should he do with him? The naked man plodded into his small kitchenette, flicking on the light. The Doc was not a sinner; he did not deserve to be killed. And killing a police officer, or 'forensics investigator', or whatever he was – that was not a wise maneuver in any regard. What to do… He looked out the tiny window over his sink into the darkness, and as the shed's new brass handle reflected the light from the window, the formation of a plan started to take shape.

Twenty minutes later, the man picked up the phone and called for a taxi to pick him up at five in the morning.

ooooooooooooooooo

Daylight was brimming on the horizon as Gil drove slowly through the Sun's parking garage. He'd been here for almost a week, and they still were no closer to solving this case than they'd been when he arrived. The only change was the addition of two more bodies in the local morgue. He needed to solve this, and solve it soon. They'd narrowed down the listing Northwind provided, but they were left with sixty suspects, the sixty maintenance men who worked the casino. Thirty for each shift. But no DNA evidence meant no search warrant; no reason to bring the men in for questioning. Until they could prove which of the men had committed the crime, none would be brought in. The district judge was tough, but fair. They needed more.

And while they had been pouring through names, reanalyzing evidence, and staring at hours of meaningless videotape, the body for Angela Hardling, the pretty wife of the North Stonington First Selectman, was lying on a cold slab in the morgue. The only difference between her and the others was two strange red marks on her neck. They'd been obscured by the dramatic slice across her jugular, but Tom had seen them during autopsy. Gil and Charlie had puzzled half the night over what could make that type of mark. It resembled a burn more than trauma, but it was like nothing that any of them had ever seen. They'd measured all known brands of tasers, but the marks were too close together. None matched.

The tapes from the casino had provided little in the way of additional evidence. Charlie had been reviewing them for days and had found nothing relevant. For each of the three murders that occurred at the Sun, a maintenance man in a jumpsuit would carry the standard issue utility bucket to the victim's door. Their killer would knock, and the victim would let the man in willingly. Usually around the 24 hour timeframe, the man would leave. He knew the layout, and the camera never caught his face.

Grissom recalled the man he saw in the elevator, but could not remember the name on his uniform. After a frantic trip to the casino, involving conversations with the front desk and the maintenance supervisor on at the time, they had come close to a legitimate suspect. The log showed a call had come in from the Hardling's room, requesting the bathroom lights be changed, as both were blown out. Dominic Ortiz was the man assigned to the task, and he was immediately cuffed and brought in for questioning.

Northwind had proved cunning and resourceful as an interrogations officer, and Gil had seen the resemblance to Brass within minutes. However, their suspect turned out to be a dud. He had never entered the room. A note had been taped to the door stating that the lights seemed to be working now. Further questioning by Northwind revealed that a twenty had been taped to the note. Dominic had proceeded to spend the twenty at the bar in front of the waterfall, after his shift had ended.

The note was still valid evidence, and a scramble had ensued to find it and test it for prints. Dominic thought he threw it away, and the threat of dumpster diving looked imminent. Sara had scowled at that thought. But after they and half of the casino's security staff had checked Dominic's locker, the note was found stuffed into the pocket of his overalls. "I meant to bring them home, really. I do wash them," Dominic had told Sara directly, his face flush with embarrassment. Grissom's heart had flared in jealousy at the sight of Sara's amused grin. Must every man in this casino flirt with her?

Evidence in hand, he and Sara had sped back to the lab, ready to fumigate the crumpled paper for prints. An hour went by as they sat in the kitchen area, waiting patiently. A very timid and regretful Jeanine shook her head slightly in the doorway, and that was the end to their evening.

Tonight, he and Charlie had returned to the drawing board, scanning the tapes again, reviewing the evidence over and over. They needed to move forward. They needed to find the evidence that they'd missed. And they needed to find a meaning for those cryptic letters.

Angela Hardling had sported an 'S' on her chest. They had two 'A's, an 'L', and an 'S'. No question that the letters meant something, but what? Evidence out of context meant nothing.

Sara had been working on that puzzle when he, Charlie, and Nave had interrupted her to inform her of the press conference. The remainder of tonight's shift was spent at the Best Western, all of them eventually answering one question or another. Grissom's ties to Vegas were now public knowledge, but Sara was still free of the media's eye. Perhaps her side-story was not as interesting as they'd both assumed.

Gil parked the rental car in its normal spot next to the concrete pillar in the corner of the parking garage. It was an ideal location, providing protection from other cars and door dings which he was not willing to pay for when the car was returned. He closed the car door slowly; his mind awhirl with thoughts of the case, of Sara, of Sara's newfound competence in her handling of the case, and of three letters and four victims that did not fit any pattern.

Five minutes after Gil parked his car, a man stood slowly from his hiding place between a minivan and a full-sized pickup. He let out a slow sigh of relief as he pulled the hood of his sweatshirt up over his head. He walked slowly towards Grissom's car, his eyes focused on the license plate. Then he followed the path Grissom took, entering the casino through sliding glass doors.

oooooooooooooooooo

Footfalls echoed in the parking garage. Raindrops pattered to the pavement outside, and the air was damp with humidity. A fluorescent light hummed and flickered overhead as pooled water leaking from the story above dripped onto the concrete. There was a slight scrape as Daniel shifted his weight behind the pickup truck, his fingers idly caressing the 'taser' in his hands in mental reassurance. He fretted silently about unwanted brutality, and how he did not want to kill the Bearded Doc. Killing an innocent was a true and horrible sin. And this man was a savior of sorts, a champion for justice in his own right. But his mission contradicted with Daniel's, so he must be disabled – temporarily. When he was finished, when he had found and redeemed the other three women, then he would release the Bearded Doc.

Daniel glanced again at the cameras. The angle was such that he would be seen walking towards the car, but the actual process of subduing the Doc would be behind the concrete pillar. Even if the camera caught him, he would not be easily identified. The grey hooded sweatshirt and grey sweatpants were nondescript. If he kept the hood tight, the view of his face would be minimal.

The footfalls passed close by. It was time. Daniel's pulse pounded loudly in his ears as he rose quietly and tried to step lightly around the pillar. The Doc must have heard his approach, as he turned abruptly to face him. Bright blue eyes registered the familiar appearance of fear as Daniel raced forward. The man raised his arm in defense, and Daniel struck against it with the taser. The man jerked back, stunned, so Daniel hit him again, this time pressing the prongs to the man's neck.

Bearded Doc dropped like a stone. Daniel had to hurry – the parking lot would not be empty forever, and the Doc might wake up. He picked up the man's keys from underneath the car. He opened the back door of the car and bent down, reaching under the man's arms. Bearded Doc was _extremely _heavy, so Daniel lifted, pushed, and eventually pulled from the other side to get the man into the backseat. He closed both doors and got into the driver's seat, starting the car and sighing audibly at the sound of the engine. Now that the car was running, people would be less suspicious. He was panting from the exertion, and doubt was thundering in his mind. With a shake of his head, he tried to remove the negative thoughts. He _had _to do this. Otherwise the man in the back seat would capture him. They'd send him to prison despite his good intentions. They wouldn't understand his mission. He _had _to do this to the Bearded Doc.

Squeamish, he reached into his right pocket and retrieved the pill. This part was an unknown – would the man swallow it, even if he was unconscious? He only had experience with women, and they had taken their medication willingly, mixed with Merlot. Squinting in disgust, he turned and faced his captive. Panic welled within him as the man did not stir. Had he killed him? No, the man still breathed – a little.

He was stalling, he told himself. The Roofie did not belong in his palm; it belonged in the man. Awake and enraged, Bearded Doc would be formidable, and Daniel was not a fighter. Bearded Doc needed to be drugged until properly secured. Squinting in revulsion, he reached forward and opened the man's slack mouth. A bit of drool oozed out and Daniel shuddered. Bleach. He would need bleach after this ordeal.

He shoved the pill deep within the man's mouth and the man instinctively gagged, drooling all over Daniel's hand before finally swallowing the pill. Daniel wiped his hand aggressively on the leather seats, on his sweatpants, everywhere he could. If he ever did this again, he would bring disinfectant wipes. Many, many disinfectant wipes. After the nausea passed, Daniel let out a long sigh of relief. The Doc had swallowed the medication. He would be drugged and complacent when they arrived at his home. Daniel had the entire evening to bring him into the shed and secure him. All would be well; the hard part was over.

He went to put the car into reverse, and panicked at what he saw. What kind of car was this? He did his best to move the gearshift towards the R, and after a moderate clunk, the car started backwards. He could smell the stink of his own fear, noticing for the first time that his sweatshirt and sweatpants were rather damp with sweat. Ugh. The sooner he finished this, the better.

_... continued next chapter ->_


	18. part3chap2

… _part 3, chapter 2 …_

The photographs before her were not helping her focus. None of this made any sense. And where the hell was Grissom? It was already 9 p.m.

Sara rose, frustrated, and walked down the hallways to the A/V lab. Charles was bleary-eyed as he reviewed the video footage for the tenth time. A medium-height, medium-build, nondescript everyman walked down the hallway. Charles moved the round dial on his left, and the man reversed, only to walk down the hallway again.

"Do you think he's got a limp?" Charles asked her softly. "I can't tell; it looks subtle."

Sara leaned over his shoulder, studying the man she knew was their killer. "No, I think he's off-balanced because of the weight in his bucket." After a moment, she murmured, "Sorry."

Charles sighed, but didn't respond. Sara knew this case was bothering him as much as it bothered her. Charles had his own demons, and although he controlled them well, they were still there to haunt him when things got tough.

"Have you seen Grissom tonight?" she asked hesitantly.

"No, I've been in here since four. He isn't with you?"

"No. I haven't seen him all night."

Charles eyebrows went up in surprise. "You haven't?"

"No… I thought he might be with you."

"Well," he said, "we'd better go find him. Make sure he didn't get himself lost in some bug experiment." Charles's tone was mocking, bitter. Sara shot him a condescending look, but he ignored her as he stood. She silently followed him as they wandered the hallways. Their search ended in the parking lot, where Grissom's rental car was noticeable by its absence.

"He's not here," Sara said.

"Maybe he left, went back to Vegas. Couldn't handle the pressure."

"Charles, you know he wouldn't do that. He isn't like that."

Charles looked off into the distance as he murmured, "Yeah, I know."

"So where is he?"

"Dunno. Maybe he called in sick."

"And Mike didn't tell either of us? I don't think so. And Grissom is _never_ sick."

"Little you know."

Sara's scowl was deep as she left Charles in the parking lot. She found her supervisor in his office, his eyes distant and cold as he stared at the newspaper on his desk. This case wasn't doing Mike any favors, either. She knocked softly on the doorframe. "Mike?"

"What? Oh, Sara, it's you. I'm sorry, I was… lost in thought, I suppose."

"Difficult case; I know."

"Yes, it is. Anything I can help you with?"

"Have you seen Grissom at all this evening?"

Michael Nave blinked at her, surprised by the question. "You haven't?"

"No and neither has Charles. We were wondering if he had contacted you… or something."

"I've heard nothing from him." Sara saw the panic flash in Mike's eyes before it was quickly squelched. "I'm sure he's fine though," he said reassuringly. "There may have been an accident on 395. He may be stuck in traffic."

The sense of unease that Sara had felt all evening was growing. "He would have called." Sara stopped as she heard the desperation in her voice. "I mean… maybe you're right. Maybe he's just stuck in traffic. Or maybe his car broke down."

Mike looked at her strangely before slowly asking, "What do you really think?"

It was a long time before Sara answered. "Something is wrong."

Twenty minutes later, she and Charles were standing in Grissom's hotel room, guns drawn, as Jon secured the room. "There's nothing significant," Jon said pointedly after checking behind the shower curtain. "He was here earlier, and he got a shower. The towels are still damp." He picked up one as proof. "See?"

Sara shook her head at Jon from the bathroom doorway and smiled, "I'll take your word for it, thanks." She wasn't about to go in there if she could help it. She holstered her gun and studied the rest of the small room, noticing the half-made bed. Other than that, the room looked exactly the same as when she'd been here before. "Jon, we need to go to security. I want to see the video from the hallway, the parking lots; see if and when he left."

"Sure. I know he parked in the hotel garage."

The three of them walked down the hallway, their steps muffled by the carpet and acoustics of the hotel. "Do you really think something has happened to him?" Jon's voice portrayed his anxiety, and his age.

Charles was serious in his reply. "There are no traffic accidents, no disabled vehicles. Troop E and Montville haven't had any calls regarding a man that fits Grissom's description. And the rental car agency hasn't heard a thing."

"Maybe he had a heart attack or something," Jon said thoughtfully. Sara froze, and Charles shot Jon a withering glare.

"What? It isn't like he's a spring chicken or anything. And it would explain what happened…" Jon's voice faded as he noticed Sara's face. She was as pale as a ghost. "Oh… well, the surveillance video will show what happened. We, uh, shouldn't jump to conclusions."

Charles put his hand lightly on Sara's shoulder as the chime for the elevator dinged. "No," he said pointedly, "we shouldn't. We should never assume anything until we have all the evidence. Isn't that right, Detective Northwind?" Charles's eyes were sharper than daggers as he looked over Sara's shoulder, and Jon cowered in the corner of the elevator when he replied, "No, I mean, yeah, I mean… We shouldn't assume anything."

A black man in his late fifties looked up as the trio walked into the security room. "Tyrone, we need to review the footage of the fifteenth floor as well as the hotel's parking garage," Jon commanded, perhaps with a little too much authority. "Start around three-thirty today and go from there." Tyrone's raised eyebrows and curious expression mirrored his voice as he coughed out, "Sure thing, Jon." Sara stood close against Charles, images of Grissom collapsing alone, laying prone on some floor, gasping, dying… Her head turned away from the monitors as tears welled up in her eyes. If he was dead…

Charles noticed Sara's unease and pulled her close. "It'll be okay, sweetheart. No matter what happens, I promise it'll be okay."

Tyrone quickly rewound and played the footage from the hotel hallway. They all watched as a relatively alert and very-much-alive Grissom walked towards the same elevator they'd just ridden. Grissom stood quietly while he waited; rubbing his temples as he usually did when he was tired or bored. Within one minute and ten seconds, the elevator arrived, and Grissom stepped on. No one left, no one followed, and the hallway was vacant for a good fifteen minutes until a woman and her son left their room and waited for the elevator.

"Lobby next?" Tyrone asked, figuring out the reason they were there. He punched and flicked with expert ease and they watched as Grissom exited the elevator and walked out the double-doors into the parking garage. More clicks and flickering on the monitors as Tyrone searched for Grissom. They all stood in silence as Grissom walked through various camera views, Tyrone switching the footage almost seamlessly, until they reached the one where Grissom approached the far corner of the second story parking area. They stared as another man stood from behind the truck on the near side of the concrete pillar. Sara gasped when the other man apparently pushed something into Grissom's raised arm. Then they saw nothing but hints of movement from behind the pillar. A minute and twenty-three seconds passed before the hooded man walked around the car, only to disappear behind the pillar again.

It was three minutes and four seconds later when the car backed out. It jerked and bucked as the driver struggled to get the car in gear. With a jump, the car grabbed a gear and pulled forward, extremely slowly.

Jon barked a nervous laugh. "The guy doesn't know how to drive it." Charles and Sara looked at him in question. "It's an Audi, with the modified transmission. You have to drive it kind of like a stick-shift."

As the car crossed the camera's view, Sara spoke. "Freeze it," she ordered. Tyrone responded, and the still frame displayed their hooded man in the driver's seat. The passenger's seat was empty. Charles was ready to bolt towards the garage, but Sara held him back. "Wait," she told him softly. To Tyrone she asked, "Can you enhance it?"

"Give me a minute." Tyrone did more clicking and key-punching, and the still image showed up on a computer monitor to Tyrone's right. "We do this with the in-house cameras to determine if folks are cheatin'," he told Sara. "Not a problem." An application loaded, and Tyrone dragged the image into the application. He clicked again, and the image enhanced. "Again," Sara urged quietly, and the image enlarged and grew clearer. The man in the driver's seat was frowning, his dark eyes peering out from the hood. His nose was long, his features square. No tufts of hair stuck out from the hood tied tightly in a neat bow under the man's chin. His hand was resting awkwardly on the gearshift.

"There," Charles said, pointing. Between the driver and passenger seats, they had a view of two things: Grissom's dangling wrist, his long fingers limp, and the silver reflection of his kit lying on its side in the space behind the driver's seat. The letters "LVC" were visible.

Sara turned to Charles, a quiet fire brewing in her brown eyes, the rage and panic within her deepening her voice to a deadened whisper that neither Charles or Jon had ever heard from her before. "That's him." Charles silently shifted in agreement. "And how much do you want to bet that thing," she said with rising venom, pointing at the hooded man, "that _thing_ there is our killer?"

oooooooooooooooooo

The light was entirely too bright. Ghosts of fiery pain washed over Grissom as he opened his right eye slowly and then slammed it shut in a harsh squint. His body throbbed, but he couldn't fathom why. Was he hurt? Where had he been hit? He tried to recall what had happened.

"So," a voice purred, "you're finally awake. Good. It's time for your medication."

Grissom heard a groan, and realized it came from his own mouth. "Where am I?" he tried to ask, but all that came out was a harsh whisper of unintelligible noise. Grissom tried to focus. He licked his dry lips and swallowed before saying again, "Where am I?"

"You're safe, so don't worry. I promise not to hurt you if you behave. You need to take your medication for me, okay?" There was a note of fear and unease as the man's voice rose in question. Grissom tried again to open his eyes.

Piercing white. _Blink._ _Your eyes will adjust._ Things came into focus. A workbench, tools hanging neatly on the wall. A door with a small cross hanging above it. Unfinished wood floors and walls, a cross-beam ceiling. He turned his head slowly, _easy now_, to the right. Three slot machines, and neat coils of wire. More tools. Another table with papers and plastic bottles and miscellaneous boxes atop it. Everything appeared very orderly, a little too much so. The air was cool and damp.

There was also a man in a folding chair in the center of the room. Buzz cut brown hair, long nose, and dark eyes. Young, most likely in his mid-thirties. He was dressed casually in jeans and a faded grey t-shirt, holding a glass of wine in his left hand. _Wine. That's significant. Why?_

"Hello Bearded Doc. Forgive me for not remembering your real name, but names are not important to me." The man stood from his chair in such a way that Grissom got the impression he'd been sitting for a while. "Now are you going to cooperate and drink the wine, or are you going to make things difficult?"

Grissom scowled. He was not a child. This was wrong. He tried to walk, but found something held his legs back. He went to move his arms, but he could not. Slowly, he turned his head to rest it on his right shoulder. He followed his arm up to where his wrist was taped and secured to a large nail in the wall. _Huh?_ Grissom jerked his head to the other side, and found the same scenario. _I'm taped up. _He started yanking with his arms, and pain flashed through his wrists and palms. He tried to kick, but his legs were taped together and pinned to something he couldn't see. He felt the tape pull against the hairs on his bare skin.

"Please don't do that," the man said as he approached. "You'll hurt yourself. Please don't struggle."

"Who… _who are you?_"

"I told you, names are not important. You can call me 'Sir' if you must. Actually, I think I'd like that. Yes, you can call me 'Sir'."

"Where am I?"

"You're in my custody. I'm going to take care of you for a while, until I've finished my redemptions. Then I'll let you go. I'm sorry about that, but you were getting in my way."

Words flashed through Grissom's clouded brain. _Rapist. Bleach. Murder._ _Casino. Sara._ The thought of Sara cleared some of the haze. _Connecticut. Sara. Joint case with Sara._ **_Home._**

He blinked, and the odor of red wine filled his nostrils. The man was close, holding the plastic wine glass to Grissom's lips. "Drink please, Mr. Doc. I have to go to work soon, and I really don't have time to spare. I'll miss my bus. You wouldn't want that to happen, would you?"

_No, of course not. Very sorry… wait!_ The fog and lethargy was lifting, and Grissom lifted his head slowly. Steel blue met dark brown as Grissom glared in defiance. "No," he spat. _I will not be this man's pansy. I will not tolerate this._

"Well, that's good…" And the man lifted the glass to Grissom's lips.

Grissom jerked his head away. "No," he repeated.

"Oh dear, I was afraid of this. You are being stubborn."

Grissom regained his voice. "You are holding me captive. Let me go. Now." Fury and raw fear flared adrenaline through Grissom's veins. He jerked again with both arms, ignoring the pain lancing through his hands.

The man stepped back hesitantly, walking over to the table to Grissom's right. "Please. Don't make me hurt you." His voice was pleading, pathetic. Grissom continued to struggle and he felt the short hairs on his legs rip painfully as he struggled and kicked against the tape. "Please," the man begged. Grissom continued to fight against his bonds, self-preservation fueling his rage. When he was free, he would pound the young man's face. He saw himself doing so, his fist rising and falling in rhythm. "_FINE!_" the man screamed wildly. Grissom stopped struggling and turned as he saw a black box in the man's hand, the wine glass resting on the table. The man moved his thumb.

A flash of white-hot, searing agony. Grissom heard the screaming, and knew it was his own. Minutes passed as he panted, regaining his composure. His whole body was aflame, the after-image of red fire echoing against his closed eyelids.

"I'm so sorry," the man wailed softly. "I don't want to hurt you. Please, please cooperate." Grissom slowly opened one eye, and saw the man with tears in his eyes, the wine glass in one hand, the black box in the other.

"What do you want with me?" he choked out, his voice raspy. His body burned and he felt his fingers twitching. _What had the man done to him?_

"I want you to take your medication. You'll sleep. It'll be okay. I've already taken care of you with regards to your personal needs, so please, just take your medication and go back to sleep, _okay_?"

_Personal needs?_ "What personal needs?" he said; his voice a whisper.

"Your bodily needs. Elimination. I took care of that for you."

_What?_ Grissom looked around, lowering his head. The jolt to his system had woke him fully. He realized that he was clad only in his boxers and socks. His legs were indeed taped together around his calves and ankles by the same black tape that bound his wrists and apparently his hands. He tried to wriggle his fingers, but found he could only move his fingertips. Part of him realized this removed any leverage he might have by forming a fist with his hands. He pondered this for a moment, until the man's words registered and Grissom shuddered in revulsion. This man had violated him. His mind whirled at the implication of the man touching him in that way, in any way. Bile rose in his throat and he gagged.

"No!" the man screamed, "don't you dare!" And the blinding waves of agony coursed through Grissom again as the man pressed the small button on his black box.

It was longer this time before Grissom recovered. Tears streamed down his cheeks into his beard; their path traced by the cool air brushing against the dampness. He felt the saliva pooling in his mouth, running over his lips. He licked them subconsciously, gasping in pain.

The man was whimpering. "I only did it so you wouldn't soil yourself. I didn't hurt you, and I disposed of it properly."

"What… are you doing to me?"

"I told you, I cleansed you so you wouldn't soil yourself. And I helped you urinate…"

Grissom gagged again, coughing as his entire body retched, and the man's eyes grew wide in fear. "No…" Grissom pleaded, "I won't… please, no more." The man relaxed, and Grissom tried very hard to control himself as he spoke. "What… does the black box do?"

"It's the only way I could think to control you. I don't want to use it, really, I don't. It's… it's a shock collar. I modified it a little…"

Grissom's mind tried to comprehend his situation, and he quickly came to the conclusion that he was in mortal peril. The unstable man before him, the man who held the remote control to the dog collar around his neck (yes, he felt it now, the two prongs poking slightly into the softness of his neck); he held Grissom's life in his hands. He was most likely their serial killer; he certainly fit the profile and his words seemed to indicate the same. Grissom would tell Sara she was right, their killer was definitely OCD.

This also meant, assuming the research was correct, that Grissom would be killed. It wouldn't happen now, but when the burden of a hostage became too much for the man, he would kill his captive. Grissom's only option was to cooperate, and pray that Sara and Charlie realized he was missing and found him in time. His brows furrowed in thought. The last thing he'd remembered was walking towards the parking lot to go to work… and now he was here, a prisoner, and he needed to keep this man calm. "I'll drink the wine," he murmured softly.

"Good, good. Please do as I say. I promise I won't hurt you if you do as I say." The man walked over slowly, clearly afraid. The wine glass trembled slightly in his hand as he held it up to Grissom's lips. Grissom drank quickly, not realizing his thirst. The glass was drained in seconds.

"There. That wasn't so hard, now was it? Now you'll sleep."

Grissom grimaced at the bitter aftertaste of the wine. Cheap Merlot, if he wasn't mistaken. He suspected the wine was laced with Rohypnol, and he'd be out within fifteen to twenty minutes. Rohypnol's effects lasted at least eight hours, during which time Grissom would be oblivious. Part of him wished to fight back, to rebel, to pull and struggle with all of his might until he was free. But another part of him welcomed the calm, as it knew that struggling would be a wasted effort. He would die here, in this building, unless someone found him. _Sara…_

The man placed the glass and the dog collar remote on the workbench, close to the door. "I have to go now," he said, "but I'll be back. Behave now, and maybe I'll bring you a treat." The man smiled, and Grissom saw the flash of pure insanity in his grin.

Only after the man left, and Grissom's mind grew fuzzy and the aches in his body faded, did he realize he recognized his captor.

_TO BE CONTINUED…_


End file.
